Tag: gagged

Toby glanced down at Mike’s thick, swollen cock. Turning his long-lashed, emerald green eyes back to Mike’s face, he grinned happily, then lowered his head and began to suck the oozing shaft.

“Fuck,” Mike moaned, running his hands over Toby’s smooth, firm body. He clutched the cocksucker’s arms, feeling the biceps moving under the sleeve of tattoos decorating both arms. One of the things that had attracted Mike to Toby when they met at the gym was the latter’s skater punk look. Not that Toby wasn’t as into working out as Mike; but Mike’s was a more conventional buff fag attractiveness.

If it wasn’t love, it had been immediate lust at first sight for both. Within a month, they’d moved in together; that had been more than nine months ago—and the sex was still as hot as ever.

Mike grunted, his sweat-streaked face twisting into a grimace. “Fuckin’-A, dude, I’m gonna unload in yer mouth,” he panted and Toby, anxious for that hot spurt down his throat, redoubled his efforts.

Neither one of them had any idea they were being watched.

They’d left the blinds open; no reason they shouldn’t have—the window looked out onto a small yard surrounded by a privacy fence. Powerful as he was, Adam had been able to vault himself over the fence and land silently on the inside. Now he crouched outside the window, watching, his muscled body inflamed with desire for the young well-built bodies of the twinks and overwhelming disgust for the pathetic homos having sex in front of him.

Mike and Toby still had a daily routine at the gym, but they varied the times they went. Unluckily for them, two weeks ago, they’d been spotted there by Adam. He’d had an idea, a desire, a need—but he also needed a couple to help him fulfill it, and he felt like he’d just discovered the perfect pair.

The idea of pollution had been building in the back of his warped mind. He’d already accepted that fucking a living fag would tarnish him as a homo himself; he needed to purify the meat by snuffing it first.

Recently, though, he’d worked out his necro philosophy in more detail and decided that there were levels of purity. The meat that suffered the most was the most pure; suffering purged the faggot taint out of whatever boycunt he fucked.

That being said, how could he know how pure the meat was unless he offed it himself? Restlessly, his mind turned back to all the corpses he’d plowed that he hadn’t killed. There was no way to know how much they’d suffered—well, except for that last one, the one in the pool locker room; he’d witnessed that snuff and knew he had nothing to fear there.

And that was when he’d had the idea. It rose up in him, a great urge that had to be satisfied if he was going to feel cleansed again.

He needed to recreate those kills—but this time, he’d be the killer. That was the only was he could purge himself of the infection of faggotry. And this time, he’d make goddam sure the meat suffered.

His first necro fuck had been the two dudes in the condo; the day after coming to this conclusion, Adam had been on the hunt for a couple of pansies that he could snuff simultaneously. And the day after that, while finishing up some squats at the gym, his eyes lighted on Mike and Toby, the former doing some bench presses and the latter spotting him.

At one point, Mike had set the barbell back on the rests and, glancing around to see if anyone was looking, reached his hand up the leg of Toby’s shorts and fondled the smaller dude’s cock for a moment. Despite his careful scoping, Mike never caught sight of Adam’s eagle-eye stare; from then on, he and Toby were marked for death.

They appeared to be about the same age—Mike was twenty-three and Toby twenty-one—but Mike was the larger and better-built of the two, by quite bit. At six-foot-one and a hundred and sixty pounds, he certainly wouldn’t have been Adam’s equal in any physical contest, but he was still muscular enough to turn some heads. His short strawberry-blond hair capped a broad, good-natured face which lodged a pair of deep, emotive brown eyes, a short straight nose, smooth cheeks and full, red lips.

Toby was more of a twink at 5-foot-nine and just over a hundred and forty. His long brown hair was straight and shoulder-length; beneath his green eyes and slightly humped nose (evidence of a skateboard mishap that had broken it), he sported a soul patch of thick brown fur on his chin.

After that, Adam started tracking them, stalking the two fags as his prey. He managed to catch them in the locker room a couple of times, giving him the chance to get a better look at the meat he wanted to fuck. The skater punk maintained him image; the writhing patterns and designs of both tattooed arms continuing over his shoulders and down to the tops of his pecs, leaving his small brown nipples free. There was a very faint brown haze of body hair on his flat belly that vanished under his waistband, but otherwise, his lean, lithe body was smooth. Despite the elaboration of the tattooed sleeves, Adam was amused to note that a single open star had been rather inexpertly inked on the back of Toby’s right calf.

Mike’s muscled body was almost as smooth; his bulging pecs and ripped six-pack glistened with sweat under the gym’s fluorescent lights. The size of his hog was obvious in the skimpy shorts he chose to wear, as was his near-constant state of semi-erectness. Again, Toby followed him in this, but the skaterboy’s six inches couldn’t compare with his buff buddy’s long, thick cock.

And again, Adam smirked contemptuously. Neither one of them had a dick as big as his—but then, that was only to be expected from faggots. Might as well put ‘em outta their misery and put their meatsacks to some good purpose.

All of which was why Adam was crouched outside their rented condo. He wasn’t going in tonight; he’d simply been taking a look at the layout and hadn’t actually expected them to be home—they usually went out on Thursday nights. And Adam wanted them both together in the bedroom they shared, not down here. But despite having to watch their vile homo sex, the evening hadn’t been a total washout; the sick necro killer had learned that none of windows looking into the private fenced yard were kept locked. When he was ready, he wouldn’t have any problems gaining access to the interior of the unit.

Two days later, he was ready.

Mike and Toby had plans to go clubbing with some friends on Saturday night but the moment they’d paid their cover charge, Tyler had gotten into a bitchfight with his latest trick and it was easier to just split than listen to the squabbling. Besides, Mike would have preferred to stay home and lay pipe up Toby’s ass all night anyway; it was the latter who’d wanted to go out.

At any rate, they were home by about eleven that night. Half an hour later, both were in the bedroom. Mike was seated on the unmade bed wearing nothing more than a pair of American Eagle boxer briefs and a pair of Nike Vandal hightops. Both the kicks and the briefs were gray; the latter had a thick black waistband that stretched tautly around Mike’s narrow waist and black seams down the front that outlined the muscle twink’s huge package.

He was leaning back against the headboard, his left leg drawn up with the sneaker on the sheet and his right leg dangling. With one arm bent back behind his head as a sort of cushion, Mike toked on a freshly-lit joint and ogled Toby, who stood the center of the room.

The slim, tatted skaterpunk had slipped out of all his clothing. Completely nude except for his black Adidas Baseline kicks, he was returning from the attached bathroom, his own dick hard and bobbing in front of him as he approached Mike.

Reaching the bed, he stood next to it. “Here, gimme a hit,” he grinned, reaching out for the joint. Mike relinquished it but reached out himself, grabbing Toby’s shaft and jacking it as the younger punk inhaled deeply.

“That’s it,” Mike said approvingly as Toby exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke, “Get yourself nice and high. You’re gonna need it before your ass goes off duty for the night.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Toby replied with stoned grin, “I know you’re—”

With a loud crash, the bedroom door was kicked open, a single, powerful kick that literally broke the door in half. A hulking masculine figure, dressed in black, strode into the room, raw power obvious in every step he took.

Adam had given up his usual gym attire for this one. He’d wanted to take the pansies by surprise and anyway their condo wasn’t a public place—he’d have no excuse for being seen near the place, so it was best not to be seen at all.

To that extent, he’d made sure that his long-sleeve t-shirt and tight-fitting cargo pants were matte black, nearly impossible to see under the cover of night. His bright copper hair was likewise covered with a close-fitting black knit cap. And he’d forgone his sneakers. While he’d been able to clear the fence the other night, his feet had nearly slipped; he wanted better traction.

He’d found it in a pair of Magnum Response III tactical boots, custom ordered with steel toes. He’d bought them for another reason, but thought they’d work perfectly for what he had in mind. He’d been right. He planted his big black lace-up boot in the middle of the door and kicked his way into the homos’ bedroom with almost no effort at all.

For Mike and Toby, the violence seemed to explode like a bomb. Their different personalities were obvious by their actions once the “fight or flight” instinct kicked in. Toby shrank back into a corner in fear as Mike leaped off the bed and came at the intruder.

He never stood a chance. Adam, seeing him coming, drew back his powerful arm and swung wide, driving his balled-up fist into Mike’s face with the force of a semi hitting a brick wall. The unlucky faggot spun in a half-circle, staggering back and falling, stunned, against the bed.

Filled with rage and lust, Adam turned to Toby, who crouched whimpering in the corner of the bedroom. Seeing that he’d attracted the intruder’s attention, the lean skater punk began babbling. “No, man,” he whined, holding up his hands, “Whatever you want, dude, just take it—please don’t hurt us, man, please don’t!”

Striding towards him with a homicidal gleam in his eye, Adam laughed coldly. “Yeah, I’m gonna take what I want, you fuckin’ pansy. I’m gonna take the fag right outta you, cunt. When I’m done with you, you ain’t ever gonna suck another cock again, cunt.”

By now, he was standing in front of Toby, looming over quaking homo. From behind, he could hear the long, slow groans of Mike regaining consciousness, but he wasn’t particularly worried about him. He’d handle the stronger fairy when he needed to.

Toby looked up at Adam, trying to understand his words. He was still terrified; this huge, powerful stranger had burst into the room and punched out Mike with a single blow—what the fuck was going on?

“Is-is this some kinda hate crime?” the long-haired punk quavered, his eyes starting to tear up.

Toby gasped at the size of Adam’s member; even Mike, big as he was, wasn’t that well-hung—this dude was some kinda freak. Despite himself, he could feel his own cock respond—limp with fear, it was now stiffening and standing erect.

Reaching down, Adam clamped one large strong hand around Toby’s throat and lifted him bodily off the ground. Holding him out at arm’s length, he chuckled as the skaterboy gagged and jerked, his black Adidas kicks swinging helplessly a foot from the ground.

Looking directly into Toby’s eyes, Adam smiled—a thin smile, sharp as the edge of a knife—and said, “Only one way to earn my cock, faggot—you gotta suffer. And you don’t know the meaning of that word yet, but don’t worry—I’ll teach ya. And yer little fairy boyfriend there too. You’ll both learn how to suffer real good.”

Staring into the cunt’s eyes, Adam caught a flicker of movement. Slamming Toby into the wall and dropping him like a sack of potatoes, the muscular killer wheeled around and caught Mike full in the face with another powerful punch, just as the buff young homo had regained his feet and launched himself for an attack.

With a loud grunt, Mike fell to the floor, bleeding from the corner of his mouth. Dazed by this second impact, he stared dully up at Adam. “Stupid piece a’ shit, aintcha?” Adam sneered. “Don’t know when to stay down, do ya? Here, maybe this’ll learn ya.” Stooping, he punched Mike in the face yet again. This time he was rewarded with the satisfying crunching sound of the faggot’s nose breaking, the cartilage crushed under the force of his fist.

Pausing for a moment, Adam unzipped one of the pockets on the left thigh of his cargo pants and withdrew several long zip ties. “You win the grand prize, you lucky cocksucker,” he smirked. “You get to watch. Pay attention, asswipe, so you’ll know what to expect when it’s your turn.”

The well-built homo was flipped onto his belly; he could feel a thin plastic tie cinch inexorably around his wrists and another around his ankles, but the two powerful blows to his face had rendered him incapable of any physical activity for the moment. By the time he recovered enough to attempt any resistance, it was too late. Strong as he was, Mike wasn’t able to stretch the zip ties so much as a quarter of an inch, much less break them.

Adam kicked the faggot’s prone body viciously, using enough force to roll him onto his back. Much like he’d handled Toby, the hulking, muscle-bound killer bent down and grabbed Mike by the throat, lifting him into the air. Gagging, his Nike Vandals kicking uselessly inches above the carpet, the hardbodied twink was manhandled back to the bed, where Adam tossed him down. Snatching a handful of hair, the sadist dragged Mike upright, propping him into a seated position where he could take in the entire bedroom in a single glance.

Mike was gonna have a perfect view of Adam snuffing Toby.

In the meantime the long-haired fairy had crawled back into the corner, his young face etched with bewildered terror. He’d always expected Mike to defend him if the need arose, but this huge, bulked-out psycho who’d burst in on them so unexpectedly had overpowered Mike like he’d been a little girl. Now the man was rounding on him, and he was helpless. Whatever was gonna happen, there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Oh God, no,” he sniveled, cowering as Adam loomed over him. Glancing hesitantly up at his attacker, he watched mesmerized as the towering madman unexpectedly gabbed the hem of his own t-shirt and pulled it off over his head in a single, fluid motion, revealing his hard, furry torso that descended in a V-shape from his broad shoulders and firm, rounded pecs to his narrow waist. The knit cap had come off, tangled in the shirt, and revealed a slightly tangled mass of bright, coppery hair.

The dude was a serious stud. Toby felt himself getting hard. But that was despite of his terror, not because of it, and even though he could see a large translucent bead of precum oozing from the piss slit of the intruder’s cock, fear was taking more of his attention at the moment than horniness.

The fear was well-deserved. Adam bent down and grabbed a hank of Toby’s long hair. Wrapping it around his palm he jerked the squalling twink up onto his feet.

“C’mon, faggot, let’s get started,” he growled, grabbing Toby by the throat and hoisting him in the air again, “I gotta load to drain and I can already tell it’s gonna take a while to beat the queer outta a pathetic little homo like you.”

Toby only kicked in Adam’s grip for a moment before his face and his world exploded in pain. Adam punched him vicious in the face, then hurled him across the room. The skater’s lean body slammed into the front of the dresser. The force of the impact rolled him up over the top of it, scattering everything—their cell phones, their wallets, piles of loose change and receipts, all of it went flying as Toby smacked into the wall, then rolled back forward off the dresser and onto the floor.

Groaning in pain, the tattooed twink opened his eyes. To hurt to move, all he could see of his assailant as he approached were his laced-up boots. They came nearer, then one drew back. By the time Toby realized what it meant, it was too late to avoid it. With one single brutal kick from his steel-toed boot, Adam broke Toby’s jaw.

The lean, lithe punkboy spent the next minute or so writhing on the floor, gurgling and mewling in agony as Adam watched him with erect, throbbing satisfaction. The buff killer didn’t get to enjoy the view in peace for long, though—the other faggot began to squawk.

Adam looked around the room and soon saw what he’d expected to find. Ambling over to a pile of dirty laundry near the closet door, he bent down and picked up a reeking, stained jockstrap, stiff with cum. Turning back to Mike with a grin, he said, “You’ll get yer chance to squeal like a pig yerself later, cunt, for all the good it’ll do ya. In the meantime, keep your fuckin’ trap shut and enjoy watchin’ yer bitch suffer.” Rolling the jock into a ball, he forced it into Mike’s mouth, leaving the muscled top gagging and mute, but still able to see everything that happened.

While Adam’s attention was diverted, an instinct for self-preservation kicked in deep inside Toby’s craven soul. Even though the slightest movement of his head caused him terrible agony, he managed to rise to his hands and knees and crawl. By the time Adam had silenced Mike and turned back to Toby, the latter was halfway to the door.

“Oh no you don’t, asswipe,” Adam growled and headed for him. Toby could hear him approaching from behind; desperate tears leaked from his eyes as he realized he’d never make the door before the powerful psycho had reached him, but he had to keep going, he had to try…

When Adam got to him, he merely stood over the cringing, crawling twink for a moment, chuckling gutturally. Then he delivered another vicious, lightning-fast kick, this one connecting with Toby’s left elbow.

The force behind the steel-toed boot didn’t just dislocate the joint, it snapped the ball end off the humerus, tore the tendons and completely severed the ligaments. Despite the pain in his jaw, Toby screeched involuntarily as he collapsed and rolled onto his left side. Adam walked around the sobbing, trembling punk until he was facing him.

“Didja really think you were gonna get away, you stupid sack of shit? Fuck, dude, here I was tryin’ to make ya worth my dick, and now it looks like I’m gonna hafta kick the dumbass outta ya, you worthless faggot bitch.” Still sobbing incoherently, Toby didn’t even notice Adam raise his foot up.

He damn sure noticed when Adam stomped on his chest, the deep tread of his thick-soled boot grinding into Toby’s soft flesh. The loud snapping sound that accompanied it, like the splintering of a green limb, showed that one of the punkboy’s ribs had caved in under the sudden force—and if it didn’t show it, the sudden, high-pitched squeal forced from between Toby’s split, bleeding lips did.

“Fuck yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Adam crowed, his huge, stiff cock pulsing visibly while he drank in the image of the tattooed skate punk writhing in nightmarish agony. He was really getting off on hurting the little homo, seeing the fear and pain in his eyes. And he still had another fucktoy in reserve—tonight was gonna be so fuckin’ hot…

Toby was wrapped in torment like a flaming blanket. Every part of him was throbbing with pain, from the dull ache of bruised flesh to the glassy torture of broken bones. He’d stopped trying to think; he could only endure. An involuntary muscle jerk had pulled his head slightly to the side—from where he lay on the floor, he could clearly see Mike on the bed. The idea that Mike might rescue him was long gone. Mike was on the other side of the room, but he might as well have been on the other side of the world. Toby could see that his boyfriend was crying, but it meant nothing.

Pain was the only thing that had meaning for Toby anymore. And Adam knew it.

The relentless sadist sneered at his prey. “Does it hurt, bitch? Yeah? It ain’t enough, you worthless sack of faggot shit; you ain’t hurt anywhere near enough yet to deserve my grade-A manmeat.” He raised his boot again. This time, Toby knew what was happening. As Adam stomped, the fit, lean youth swung his right arm up and knocked the alpha’s foot away with all the force he could muster.

“You stupid pansy,” Adam barked and planted his foot in the middle of the kid’s right forearm, his big black boot covering a large section of inked flesh. With a swift, smooth motion—so casual it almost looked rehearsed—the powerful psycho bent down, grabbed Toby right wrist, and pulled it violently upward. There was a quick double-snap as both the radius and the ulna splintered; when Adam let go, the kid’s arm flopped uselessly back to the floor.

Toby didn’t react to this new source of pain. Deep in sensory overload, he was starting to go into shock. Lying on his back with his smooth chest heaving in shallow, irregular gasps, the tortured twink stared the ceiling, his bright green eyes wide and vacant. His short, thick cock had gone limp, but that didn’t bother Adam. He knew the punk would get hard again by the time he was done with him.

After all, the meat would be even more pure if the worthless fag sperm was drained out of it before Adam fucked it.

As Toby continued to shudder and tremble on the floor, Adam waked around him until he was facing Mike on the bed. With a wide, deliberate grin, he raised his right foot and planted his boot on the young faggot’s neck. The sadistic killer stared directly into Mike’s disbelieving, tear-filled eyes. “Look, ma,” he whispered. “No hands.” The hulking stud slowly began shifting his weight onto the foot on Toby’s neck.

The tattooed skaterpunk could only stare helplessly up at the huge, muscle-bound figure towering over him; there was no way for Toby to defend himself. His broken arms jerked and flopped aimlessly, like dying fish; he had no way reach for the heavy black boot that was slowly—oh, so slowly—crushing his throat. If he kicked, he bent his abdomen, causing his snapped rib to dig agonizingly into his guts, threatening to puncture his lung and pancreas. If he tried to cry out, the jagged ends of his broken jaw ground together, causing hellish pain in his mouth…

Every movement bristled with torture, but Toby’s air was gradually being cut off. He couldn’t keep still. The tread on the killer’s sole was deep and intricate; as it sank into the tender flesh of his throat, what little lucidity the long-haired power bottom still possessed began to melt away in the face of impending asphyxiation.

Adam bent his head and spat in Toby’s face. “Gettin’ harder to breathe, ain’t it?” he chuckled. “See, as you choke an’ die, yer dick is gonna get all hard—and then yer gonna cum. Happens almost every time I choke out a faggot. You perverted little pansies empty your fuckin’ balls every time I waste ya—nothin’ turns ya on like gettin’ put down hard. You wanna suffer even more than I wanna fuck you up. Disgusting sack a’ shit—I gotta squeeze your load out and drain your sick fag seed outta yer meat to make it worthy of my cock. Don’t worry, motherfucker—I’ll fill yer worthless corpse with my sperm. I’ll baptize yer guts with hot manspunk before I leave you to rot. And best of all, your fairy-ass boyfriend gets to watch you die!”

The words hit Toby’s ears like a dull ache, utterly swamped in the rising tide of instinctive terror as his oxygen was cut off. He began to shudder and kick, helplessly flailing his firm, smooth legs and jerking his broken arms aimlessly. Air. He needed air.

And that was when it finally hit the lean twink—the realization that he was gonna die finally sank through the multiple layer of pain that had wrapped him like a cocoon. Panic set in, a terrifying white panic the left him conscious and aware but still unable to control his actions. Smirking, Adam watched Toby lose his shit as the boy choked under the alpha’s booted foot. The pathetic little homo thrashed, his Adidas Baseline kicks carving furrows in the carpet as his inked arms flailed limply and helplessly.

As he struggled, Toby’s long hair became tangled and dark with sweat. His entire body, in fact, was slick with sweat, the cold rank sweat of physical suffering. The brutalized faggot’s smooth firm flesh glistened in the light, even as his face began to swell and grow dark. “Hey, man,” Adam called out to Mike, “Lookit this shit. See how his eyes are bulgin’? That’s cause pressure’s building up in his head. Damn, motherfucker, that’s gotta hurt like shit.”

From his position on the floor, Toby found that he couldn’t look away from his killer’s tall, powerfully-built form—quite literally. As Adam had pointed out, his eyes were bulging; he couldn’t close them. Toby had no choice but to stare up at the stud who was snuffing him.

The most immediate part of Adam in Toby’s field of vision was the shaft of his boot, the black leather rising from the bottom of his line of sight—he could clearly see how the extra-long laces circled the top of the shaft and were tied in front. Above it, he could trace the line of the alpha’s thick calf and thigh muscles, outlined in the leg of his cargo pants.

Then there was the cock–the huge, throbbing shaft, jutting arrogantly in from, clear precum oozing in an almost steady stream…but Toby had to block that out, he couldn’t follow the link of pain and death and lust…

Beyond the webbed nylon belt circling his tight waist, the curly, golden fur that rose above the waistband, running up the killer’s ripped abs, spread out lushly on his broad, jutting pecs. Heaving with exertion, Adam’s chest glittered as he moved and beads of sweat caught in his body hair caught the light.

Above that, there was a face, a beautiful, cold, contempt-filled face surmounted by red-gold curls like a copper nimbus, but it was too far away. Toby was starting to have trouble seeing; darkness exploded in his sight light the blooms of huge black flowers. His tongue was swelling, causing the dying twink horrible pain as it forced aside his broken jaw, but there was nothing he could do. White, foamy drool leaked from his swelling lips, running down his chin and pooling around the treads of Adam’s utility boot.

The pounding in his heat was swift and intense; Toby could feel that it coincided with his speeding, panicked heart. Despite the pounding and loud ringing in his ears, the slowly choking youth could hear the sadistically mocking words of his killer.

“How’s it feel, dying like a fuckin’ insect, havin’ yer useless life ground out under my boot, faggot? Ya like gettin’ put down like the garbage you are, huh? Fuck yeah, you piece of shit, I toldja you’d get hard again. Disgustin’ little pervert, you just fuckin’ love it when a real man finally ends yer worthless existence. C’mon, homo, time to drain yer sick faggot sperm so I can fuck some clean meat.”

With a snarl, Adam leaned forward, throwing all his weight on his right foot. There was a loud crunch and the steel-toed boot suddenly sank a good two inches into Toby’s throat as the punk’s windpipe collapsed. The young fag’s attention, momentarily diverted to the bizarre phenomenon of his throbbing, painfully erect cock, experienced the blast of horrifying agony that accompanies a mortal injury.

Adam steadied himself as the lean, lithe body beneath his feet began to shudder violently. Toby’s huge green eyes, stained red by numerous ruptured blood vessels, rolled back into his head as he convulsed, his legs drawing up, then straightening as he kicked his life away with such force the Adidas sneaker was pulled off his left foot. The buff alpha knew what was happening; shifting his body to one side, he applied more pressure to the boot embedded in the twink’s neck, twisting his foot sideways.

With a loud cracking noise, Adam snapped Toby’s neck like a dead twig. As the sudden electrochemical shock flooded the dead kid’s nervous system, his erect shaft pulsed visibly and sent a solid stream of boyjizz up in a four-foot geyser. Disgust on his face, Adam managed to dodge the fountain of spunk, letting it splash back on Toby body as it continued to jerk and flail in its death throes.

“Fuck yeah, man, there we go,” the sick top gloated at the dead boy’s sobbing boyfriend. “Once that worthless fag spunk is unloaded, I’ll fill the meat with real manseed. Finally givin’ this useless pansy a purpose—it died so I can have a cumrag.”

Adam stalked across the room, retrieving a chair that was standing behind the closet door. As he did so, Mike, aflame with panic and anger, writhed violently on the bed. Unable to loosen the zip ties binding him, the muscle twink increased his efforts until he managed to rise up vertically on the bed. Once he was upright, though, he had no way of balancing himself and instantly felt himself falling over sideways.

His thick, muscular body hit the nightstand with a crash, causing him to start bleeding again from his already-broken nose. He fell to the floor, accompanied by the lamp. The bulb didn’t break; still lit, the light cast surreal shadows across the room from its low angle on the floor.

Adam had watched it all happen. He wasn’t worried about Mike; there was no way for the meat to break free of its bonds. And the dude had landed on the floor in a great position for a close-up of the next act.

The buff killer placed the chair upright in front of Mike, a few feet away. Then he bent down and grabbed Toby, manhandling the still-quivering corpse until he’d draped it face-down over the back of the chair. Then, without another word, he brandished his huge, dripping cock, grinned at Mike, and mounted the dead kid, his shaft penetrating Toby’s sphincter and sinking deeply into the meat’s guts.

“Fuck yeah, nice and smooth, just like I like ‘em,” Adam smirked as Mike burst anew into hot tears of outrage and terror. The bound punk struggled to protest, but the soiled jock had been shoved too deeply into his mouth for him to be able to force it out; all he could do was watch the violation of his boyfriend’s corpse in silence.

The chair creaked loudly as Adam gripped the meat’s narrow waist and plowed its still-spasming asshole. His furry, sweat-streaked flesh slapped loudly against Toby’s cooling skin as the alpha brutally pumped his shaft into the dead boy’s rectum. As he fucked the corpse, Adam reached up and grabbed a handful of the punk’s long hair and jerked it back, raising Toby’s head.

“Look at him,” the vicious sadist hissed at the crying, struggling boy on the ground, “Look at his face. See the pain and terror he endured? See how the horror of his last few seconds of life are etched into his face? Disgustin’ little faggot deserved to suffer so much more but he was weak. You ain’t. You can take what I’m gonna give ya—and it’s gonna be so much worse than what he went through.”

Adam never missed a single stroke of his brutal necro fuck as he spoke, slamming his gigantic rod into the corpse with a virulent power that was equal parts lust and hatred. Through his tears, Mike watched Toby’s body jerk and flop with every intrusive thrust of Adam’s hips.

Suddenly Adam’s face tightened. He gave a loud grunt, ramming his shaft home as his hulking, muscle-bound form went rigid. There was a loud crack and the chair began a slow-motion collapse under the weight of Adam’s orgasmic thrust. The killer had time to slide one booted foot forward and keep his balance as the chair bent forward and fell to the floor. Toby’s body fell with it, slowly sliding off the alpha’s still-shooting cock. Adam finished up by spraying his load onto the corpse’s back.

Snorting with contempt, Adam glared at Mike. “Fucker was totally worthless. Even dead, he couldn’t take a real man’s load. My balls are still fulla cum, motherfucker—now it’s yer turn. He was just the appetizer—you’re the main course, fuckwad. And I like to linger over my meat. Ready to dance, asswipe? Yer gonna die clawin’ and pissin’ yerself in agony, faggot.”

Mike shook his head frantically, the stained jockstrap protruding from his mouth. His already large brown eyes were huge with stunned shock; the sheer horror of watching his boyfriend’s snuff and necro-rape was reflected in his taut, pale face.

Bending down, Adam wrapped both hands around Mike’s throat. Hoisting the jerking, struggling youth into the air, he slammed him against the wall on the far side of the dresser. The terrified fag had a brief lucid moment to comprehend the sheer power of his assailant as Adam drew his right arm back, keeping Mike pinned with his back to the wall, several inches off the ground, with just one hand—and this with a loose enough grip to allow the beefy punk to breathe.

The he noticed that Adam’s hand had curled into a fist. He saw the dude’s massive bicep twitch—and then his world exploded in pain as Adam drove his fist into the pansy’s face with the force of a steam hammer.

Mike’s head rocked backwards, punching a hole in the drywall as his left cheekbone and the thin bone behind his left eye shattered. His hands, uselessly bound behind him, clawed at the wall, peeling off strips of paint with his fingernails. His loud cry was muffled by the reeking fabric shoved into his throat.

He didn’t need to worry about the gag for long. The bruised, battered homo was so stunned by the blow to his head that he never saw Adam’s thick arm draw back again. He felt it, though; the muscular sadist pounded his huge fist straight into Mike’s solar plexus, at the base of his sternum.

The writhing fag’s diaphragm spasmed, his well-built chest collapsing in as the air in his lungs was expelled violently enough for him to blow the jockstrap out of his mouth; it dropped to the floor in the few inches of no-man’s-land between the vicious killer and his helpless prey. Mike was unable to take advantage of his sudden freedom to speak—his entire attention was focused on being able to breathe. For several terrifying seconds, the buff young queerboy was unable to inhale, his lungs refusing to inflate. His eyes, wide and round, the left one blackening and swelling, were dulled over in sheer panic as he savored a foretaste of suffocation.

Suddenly the bulging groin of his American Eagle boxers darkened. Struggling and terrified, the well-built youth had pissed himself in terror, the yellow urine running down his legs and flowing into his Nikes. His one lucid thought was that however he was gonna die, he didn’t want to choke or suffocate. Anything but this, he begged silently in the dark empty corners of his mind. Anything but this.

Adam read the terror in the kid’s eyes and his grin widened and became shark-like. His thick, swinging dick stiffened as he contemplated the bound, helpless faggot in his grasp. The fucker was his do with as he pleased—and what pleased him damn sure wasn’t gonna please the homo.

Jerking and sweating, Mike suddenly inhaled deeply, managing to force oxygen back into his lungs. With no warning, Adam delivered a brutal gutpunch to the suspended boy, sinking his fist deep into Mike’s firm, flat belly and driving out the air again. This time, he released the kid, letting Mike fall back to the floor, shuddering and gasping like a landed fish dying on the deck of a trawler. As the fag’s face went purple, Adam stood over him, sneering.

“Lookitya, you pathetic piece a’ shit,” he drawled contemptuously. “Got yerself all buff an’ muscular, but yer still a worthless fuckin’ fairy. Your muscles ain’t no match for mine, asswipe; they ain’t gonna help ya now. I’m gonna fuck you up even worse than I did yer pansy-ass little boyfriend. Hey, remember when I did this to ‘im?”

With a swift kick of his powerful leg, Adam’s steel-toed boot smashed into Mike’s flank, shattering two ribs into multiple pieces. Once again, the handsome young homo had just regained his air, only to suffer a brutal impact that drove it back out. This one was worse, though. This one did major damage.

For the rest of Mike’s life—that is, for the next few minutes—the fit young punk desperately tried to breathe, never knowing that bone shards from his broken ribs had punctured his left lung, causing it slowly to deflate. He only knew the creeping terror of slow advancing suffocation—and pain. He became very familiar with pain.

Leaving one boot planted firmly on Mike’s chest, Adam leaned down and casually spit in the youth’s strained, agonized face. “Naw, man, I ain’t gonna kill ya with my feet like I did yer fucktoy,” he jeered. “That was fun, but I got somethin’ more…intense planned for you. But first, I wanna know—did he ever fuck you? Or were you always the top?”

Mike looked up at the alpha, his eyes running from the tightly laced boot on his chest up along the well-fitted black cargo pants to the huge, engorged shaft of manmeat that jutted out in front of Adam. Huge and oozing, it added an emphasis to the sadist’s questions that intimidated the fuck out of Mike. Wallowing in pain, he looked away, gasping and heaving.

“What was that, fuckmeat?” Adam grinned. Bending down, he clamped his left hand around Mike’s throat. The bulked-out psycho was strong enough to hoist the buff young homo into the air single-handedly. His windpipe was almost completely closed off this time and his left flank burned with pain where his ribs ground together but the attractive young punk unfortunately managed to remain somewhat lucid. Lucid enough to comprehend the sheer power of the man who had him so completely at his mercy.

He needed a way to fight back. Despite the pain, he needed to fight back or the same thing would happen to him that happened to Toby. Toby—oh fuck, Toby, what the fuck happened…they were just gonna have a fun evening and this fucker showed up…

With a lightning-fast lunge of his arm, Adam snatched at Mike’s piss-soaked briefs and tore them off him, the elastic at the waist snapping back painfully on Mike’s bare flesh. Nude except for his Nike hightops, the queer hunk dangled in mid-air, slowly choking as he struggled and squirmed, causing the zip ties binding his wrists and ankles to dig even deeper into his skin.

“Did that dead piece a’ shit lyin’ over there ever fuck you, asswipe?” Adam demanded. “Ever had a cock up yer boyhole? Answer me, fuckwad!” Adam punctuated his demand with another blow to Mike’s face, this one splitting his lips and knocking out one of the kid’s canines. “Can’t talk, motherfucker? Ok, just nod or shake yer head. Or I’m gonna beat ya to death right fuckin’ now.”

Mike’s lucidity was fast drowning in a rising tide of terror; he knew the hulking stud wasn’t kidding. Eventually, he forced himself to shake his head—not very well, but enough for Adam to feel it.

And when he did, he grinned. “Excellent. Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than fuckin’ a virgin corpse.”

Mike would have pissed himself again at the words if he hadn’t already emptied his bladder—and if his dick hadn’t grown unaccountably hard.

Adam noticed it too. “Fuckin’ fag pervert,” he snarled, “Ya like that, dontcha? You want my fuckin’ rod in ya so bad yer willin’ to die to get it, aintcha? Disgustin’ piece a’ shit—see, this is why I gotta waste ya. Doin’ the fuckin’ world a favor, I am, by clearin’ it of sick fucks like you.”

Mike could feel his pulse racing—it pounded in his temples and in his rigid cock. His eyes felt like they were gonna pop right out of his head; tears streamed down his cheeks. Pain and terror fought for control within him and he wondered if he was going to die like this, suspended in mid-air, shuddering and jerking.

And then he was sailing through the air. It happened in the blink of an eye; there was no warning—Adam simply tossed him across the room with no more effort than if he was a rag doll. The buff homo slammed violently into the wooden headboard. It broke in half vertically with a loud crack as a hundred and sixty pounds of muscled boymeat smashed against it and fell back limply onto the tangled pile of sheets covering the bed.

Barely conscious, Mike rolled onto his back and stared blankly up at the ceiling as well as his swollen eyes would allow—particularly the left one. His entire face was bruised and puffed up, aching horribly from the broken bones in his face. It hurt bad, but his side, where the snapped ribs were grinding against each other, hurt worse. His wrists and ankles were raw and nearly bleeding from the way the zip ties had cut into his flesh during his useless struggles. Fuck, it all hurt so bad…and then there was Toby…

The hardbodied young punk was losing his will to live. Mike had endured a ruthless mindfuck. Despite his impressive build, he wasn’t emotionally strong; he simply couldn’t handle the combination of mental and physical trauma he’d been forced to endure. Adam could see it in his eyes; the homo was starting to check out. He needed to move fast.

Suddenly Mike felt a weight on him. Adam was climbing onto the bed—and onto him. His blank stare no longer focused on the ceiling; now his killer filled his field of vision. Seeing the hard face, so cruel and so handsome, topped with copper curls, Mike knew he was looking into the face of the man who was gonna kill him. For the first time, he really knew it.

The power of the muscle-bound sadist was obvious; it was expressed in everything about him from the wiry, sweat-matted fur covering his broad hubcap pecs to the powerful tang of adrenaline and testosterone that was blended in with his musky perspiration. Mike knew he was strong, but he was helpless before this bulked-out hypermasculine stud.

Adam knew the score. He lowered himself down, letting his massive cock make contact with Mike’s flat, smooth belly. The thick, engorged head was oozing precum steadily; it acted as lube, letting the pulsing shaft of manmeat slide up Mike’s abdomen. As Adam lay full-length on Mike, belly to belly, their erect dicks were pressed between them, side by side.

“Look at me, faggot,” Adam whispered quietly, almost seductively, as he wrapped both hands around Mike’s throat. “Look me in the eyes as I put yer worthless ass down. I wanna watch your wasted life drain outta ya. I wanna see death in yer eyes. You feel me, bro? Last thing yer ever gonna see is my grinnin’ face as I wipe yer fag ass off the face of the earth.”

And then he started squeezing.

Mike had panicked as he’d been held up and dangled but Adam hadn’t been trying to strangle him then. This was different. This hurt a fuck of a lot more. He was low on oxygen as it was, his left lung having slowly collapsed over the last few minutes, but Adam was literally crushing his esophagus. The cruel killer had wrapped his fingers behind the boy’s neck but had placed his thumbs in front, right on the larynx. As he clamped his hands down with the force of steel trap, Mike’s voicebox was remorselessly shoved back into his throat, the cartilage deforming past its limits.

It hurt, Jesus, it hurt so fuckin’ bad. But as bad as it hurt, the pain receded into a loud buzzing in the background as white, blinding tide of terror rose within Mike. He was suffocating. He couldn’t breathe. Worse, he couldn’t fight it. He was helpless, pressed under the heavy mass of his killer’s muscles, his hands and legs excruciatingly bound. This was it, oh fuck, this was for real, no, no, he wasn’t gonna die, not now…

Adam knew the faggot was too far gone in fear to pay attention to anything he said. And while that was a good thing—fear was excellent for purifying faggotry—the little (compared to Adam) fuckwad needed to be brought back into the now. Applying some pressure, he swiftly and viciously dug his thumbs in and was rewarded with a loud crack.

Mike instantly stopped thrashing and stared with horror into Adam’s face. His larynx had just been crushed into a useless mass of mangled cartilage.

As his gorgeous but abused body went rigid in horrific agony, some dark corner of Mike’s mind-raped psyche knew the brutal sadist was speaking the truth. Even in the midst of overwhelming suffering, Mike could feel his own shaft, achingly erect, rubbing against his killer’s ripped, hairy abs.

“Time for lights out, asswipe,” Adam continued. “You’re almost clean enough for my cock. I just need to squeeze the defective homo sperm outta yer nutsack and you’ll be ready to receive the load of a real man. Time to die.” He paused, with a faint chuckle. “Ain’t like anyone’s gonna miss another faggot, anyways. Only one who mighta cared is already dead. And he was a damn lousy fuck.”

He squeezed even harder. Mike’s tongue, already thick, swelled to the point it forced his mouth open. The near-black tip parted the cunt’s blue lips as white foamy drool trickled down the youth’s cheeks. As the weight of asphyxiation crushed his chest, Mike’s tremulous sanity succumbed to remorseless hammering in his head. A screaming pitch-black vortex of sheer terror opened in his mind…

…but he wasn’t too far gone to hear—or to feel—the loud crackling, crunching sound as his trachea collapsed into a bloody mass of gristle under Adam’s relentless, vise-like grip. And in the utter shock of fatal injury, Mike shot a death load of epic proportions. His bulging eyes were looking directly into Adam’s as he felt an agony he’d never know could exist—it felt like his entire self, his life essence, had been violently ripped out and was being expelled in his hot, ropy jizz.

His powerful, sweaty body entwined with that of the dying muscular twink, Adam felt the faggot’s spunk splattering over his abs and soaking into the wiry fur that forested his bulked-out torso. It infuriated him—nasty homo seed contaminating his well-cared-for body. With a roar, he let go of Mike’s neck and grabbed the unlucky pansy’s ankles.

In the last five seconds of his life, Mike suffered one last time from the sadistic stranger’s hate and lust. Enraged, Adam jerked the kid’s legs apart. As ice-cold darkness closed in on him, Mike saw Adam’s huge, sweaty biceps flex awesomely—and then, with a loud snap, Adam broke the zip tie. The thin plastic dug through Mike’s flesh down to the bone, but it finally gave way before the sheer power of the hardbodied killer.

The cuts had severed an artery in Mike’s right ankle, but since his heart had stopped beating almost simultaneously, blood merely seeped from the wound instead of spurting. Adam wasn’t done with his victim, though.

Enraged, the psychotic stud brandished his hard, club-like cock and plunged it into Mike’s fuckhole. Even though the corpse’s sphincter was flaccid in death, it still wasn’t elastic enough to accept a shaft of the size of the one now being brutally rammed into it—Adam tore the dead kid’s ass open. “You worthless queerboy fucker,” he snarled, “Thought you’d make me a fag by squirtin’ yer diseased homo cum on me, huh? You ain’t the first faggot to try it, cunt, but ain’t none of ya ever man enough to turn me!”

His hips thrusting swiftly, Adam nailed the dead kid’s butthole. Sweat trickled down the small of his muscled back as he fucked the corpse, every pump of his cock violently expressing his hate and disgust for the fag he was banging. He became aware that his balls were drawing up as his semen started to boil over. And then orgasm hit him, almost like a violent cramp.

“Fuck!” he screamed, “Fuck!”

It was almost involuntary, the way his right arm drew back and then pumped forward like a steam piston, smashing into the corpse’s face. Adam didn’t try to stop it, though—it felt so fuckin’ right. As his cock swelled and spurted again, his fist shot forward again. And again. With every spurt of hot manseed from his engorged dick, Adam punched Mike’s swollen, blackened face as hard as he could.

This was what Adam had wanted, had hoped for—had worked for. It felt right.

He came a lot. A lot. By the time he was done, Mike was unrecognizable. Adam had beaten his face to hamburger.

With a deep sigh, Adam pulled back and sat on the bed, his dripping cock resting on the tangled sheets. He glanced around the room, noting the position of a couple of items, then got up and headed for the bathroom.

After spending a few minutes cleaning the drying semen off his torso, he tucked his dick back into his cargo pants. Grabbing a clean towel, he headed back to the bedroom. Once there, he used the towel to pry the Nike Vandals off Mike’s feet. They were soaked with the dead kid’s piss, but they could be cleaned.

Then he collected Toby’s Adidas kicks, pulling one off his foot and simply picking the other up off the floor. He’d seen a gym bag on the far side of the dresser; he used it to collect his trophies, picking up his long-sleeve t-shirt and his knit cap as he passed them. It was a cool night, but Adam was still warm and sweaty; he decided not to put either on at the moment.

Bag in hand, he paused at the door and looked back. Toby was still lying belly-up on the floor, his limbs and head all at grotesque angles to the body. Mike, his hands still bound behind him, was also lying belly-up on the bed, his legs spread, white spunk oozing from his ravaged asshole.

It wasn’t complete. He needed to recreate that first necro fuck for it to be right.

Leaving the bag at the door, Adam returned to Toby and rolled him over, off the broken remains of the chair, burying his dead swollen face in the carpet. With a quick step to the bed, the psycho killer grabbed Mike’s corpse under the arms, dragging it over to Toby’s. Tossing it down on top of the long-haired dude’s body like a sack of dirty laundry, Adam bent down and manipulated Mike’s still semi-erect penis into Toby’s ass, then adjusted the legs.

Stepping back, Adam admired his posing. It looked like a perfectly natural fuck. Well, except that Mike’s hands were still zip tied behind his back. And the fact that both punks had suffered major physical trauma. And that both were obviously dead.

As far as Adam was concerned, it was perfect. He’d erased any possible homo contamination from his first necro fuck. Picking up the bag, he headed out the door. Within six minutes, he was off the property, walking bare-chested down the street to where he’d parked his truck a safe distance away.

While he walked, Adam found his thoughts—and his cock—drawn to public restrooms.

The boy is starting to wake up. Damn, I thought I’d knocked him out harder than that. He’d smoked the doctored joint quickly enough, that’s for sure.

I think he’s about eighteen or so. I found him in the parking lot of a big box in the ‘burbs; he was looking to score some weed. I’d already rolled a “sample” joint with some trank tabs ground in. The kid was out cold after a couple of hits. I drove him back to my killing pit.

He was still out when I stripped him and tied him to the framework around the bed. He’d been wearing all white, for some reason. White baseball cap worn backwards, white t-shirt, white satin sports shorts and white canvas high-tops. I let him keep his shoes and his cap.

He has a tight, smooth body that I fondle as I strap him into the steel frame I’ve built around the bed. It’ll keep him still at the end; makes less of a mess. This abandoned house is perfect. It’s far enough from any neighbors that no one will hear any sounds that manage to escape. And when I’m done with my fucktoy, I can torch the place. It’ll be a while before anyone notices—much less before the fire department actually gets here. Any evidence will have gone up in flames.

But that’s for later. Time for fun first.

The fuckmeat is strapped face down, his hands and ankles are tied to posts at the corners of the bed. He’s immobile and completely helpless. And still out, at this point. I stuff my hard dick into his virgin ass. He doesn’t need to be awake for this part; I’m just priming my pump.

Oh god, that tight hole…no one’s been up there before. Smooth and sweet. While my cock is spearing the kid’s ass, I reach around and fasten a ball gag onto his mouth. It’s secluded here, but there’s no sense taking any chances.

And by the time I’m done with him, he’ll be screaming his little punk life out.

The drugs are wearing off faster than I thought they would. He’s starting to groan and struggle. I don’t think he’s awake enough to realize he’s being raped. He’ll figure it out soon enough. I’m tearing his tender asshole with every thrust and can feel his blood on my meat.

He’s awaking in agony. Really starting to moan and yell. I love it when he screams; it makes his rectum clench and vibrate.

His muffled voice begs and pleads for me to stop. Like that’s gonna happen. His boymeat just feels too good around my cock.

He struggles violently but all it’s doing is massaging my dick more. I lie down full length on top of him and whisper in his ear.

“Shut up and take my cock, you little fuckin’ bitch. The more you squirm, the more I tear you open. Just lay there and enjoy my tool deep inside you.”

He squirms and moans, but he’s listening.

“Yeah, this is what you want. Little fuckin’ punk wanted to get taken down by a hard man. You like my rod rippin’ you apart? Enjoy it now, faggot, ‘cause you’re gonna be screaming and bleeding out your last few seconds on earth. You’re gonna die on my dick.”

He doesn’t like hearing that. Even with his mouth gagged, his cries and screams are getting me hot. Little teen punk, dumb and full of cum, spending the last moments of his life trying to escape my cock. Each panicked spasm grips the swollen purple head of my cock tightly.

I’m getting close. Gonna blow my load soon. Time to amp up the terror. I can feel the muscles in the fuckbitch’s smooth calves tighten against my legs. The boy is tensing up; on some level, he may know what’s coming.

Time for show and tell. I show him my knife and tell him how I’m gonna kill him with it.

It’s a huge hunting knife with a viciously serrated blade. I hold it directly in front of the kid’s eyes so he can’t help but see it.

“See this?” I whisper. “In a few minutes I’m gonna cut your throat with it. You’re gonna feel each one of these jagged serrations rip into your throat. It’s not gonna be a neat little slit; I’m gonna tear your fuckin’ windpipe open. You’ll feel the gaping gash in your trachea but you won’t be able to cry out. You’ll just moan and start gurgling as you inhale your own blood. You’re gonna die, choking and gagging, your mouth full of blood and your ass full of cock. Your death throes will clamp your hole down hard on my dick. I’m killing you because your death will make me cum, fucker. You’re just here to die on my dick and get thrown out like rotting meat.”

Oh yes, there’s the panic I was looking for. The ball gag muffles the teen punk’s cries but I can make out the words. It’s the usual. Begging for his life, pleading for mercy. He doesn’t get it yet. I’m only interested in him as fuckmeat and that means he has to die. That’s all the bitch is good for.

I’m lying on top of him full length, not moving, not thrusting. I won’t need to; once I cut his throat, all I’ll need to do is hold on while his thrashing body works my cock for me.

As I lie there with the kid impaled on my rod, I reach around with one hand and pull the boy’s chin up. The knife is in my other hand; I press it into his tender flesh and start sawing his neck open.

The shriek that erupts from his blocked-off mouth ends in a high-pitched squeal as I puncture his trachea.

He backs his ass up on my cock. The sound of gushing blood can barely be heard over the kid’s labored breathing—each bubbling gasp accompanied by a moaning sound that escapes convulsively from the boy’s severed windpipe. I hold his violently jerking body down on the bed by placing a hand on each of his shoulders.

“That’s it,” I whisper into the dying teen’s ear, “just ride my cock as you bleed out. Feel it, punk; this is what a real man feels like inside you as you die. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You wanted a hard man to take you and breed you and waste you. Don’t worry, you fucking cumdump pig, the last thing you’ll feel as life drains out of you is my load burning in your ass and then your job will be done, bitch.”

“MMMM-hmmm!” He gives a deep moan. There’s almost a sound of pleasure in it; he’s finally getting it. Getting me off is the last thing he’ll do in life and the best use of him. He wants it. He wants to feel my spunk in him before he fades out.

“Work it, you dying faggot bitch. Work my dick. Make me cum before you die, you useless punk.”

There’s a gurgle. “MMMMmmm!” His rectum clamps down and stokes my tool. He gurgles and moans a second time and a third; each time his tight virgin hole gasps my rod like a hand, jerking my meat in the agony of death.

The kid’s fourth moan is faint and despairing; it’ll be his last. His heart is spasming irregularly with the loss of blood; his consciousness is fading into a white haze. In a final, intense twitch his body grips my dick and I blow a hot geyser of cum deep into his quivering intestines. As his corpse goes limp in death, I fill his rectum with semen.

Still deep in his ass, I lie on top of him for a while, loving him now more than ever. I’d love to stick around and fuck his cold meat again but my phone tells me there’s already an alert out for him. Time to get a little fire going.

The guy in 1324 has got himself a rentboy. I can see him out on the balcony, which usually means the deed is done and the tenant is asleep—or passed out, more likely. Dunno why he does that; he’s been ripped off so many times…

He leaves his blinds open and I own an excellent pair of binoculars. I see exactly what goes on over there and he has no idea. He’s never laid eyes on me directly.

The boy, though…he can see me. I’m out on my balcony tonight and we have a clear view of each other across the courtyard. I’d already checked him out with the binocs, of course.

He’s got black hair, a large nose, olive skin—kinda a Middle Eastern look. He’s well-built with smooth, muscular arms shown off by the electric blue sleeveless t-shirt he’s got on. His tight jeans highlight his junk, the long bulge of his tool very visible. His hightops are black and blue, the same bright blue as his shirt—laces, too.

Now that he can see me—and see me looking—he seems to develop an interest in me. He’s rubbing his dick and I think he’s smiling at me. He’s far enough away that I can’t tell for sure.

Well, why not? His john is passed out and nobody would know he was over here. If anyone ever bothers to trace him, the trail will end at apartment 1324.

But nobody bothers to trace the whores. That’s why I like to play with them. When I’ve used them up, I can just throw them away.

He’s on the other side of the courtyard but he sees me beckon. He vanishes from the balcony, and in a couple of minutes I see him emerge from building thirteen, coming towards me. Most of the courtyard is shrouded in deep shadow, the security lights not having been maintained (like much else in this place).

I hear him coming up the stairs and meet him at the door. He’s smiling, eager to get laid and get paid. I’m stripped and ready. He tells me his name, but I don’t care. His name is fuckmeat and he ain’t gonna live long enough to enjoy it.

When he gets his shirt off, I can see his smooth, hard belly and developed pectorals. I’m actually surprised at smooth he is; he’s in his mid-twenties and I had somehow expected him to be hairier. Even his legs are like silk. I wonder what kind of skin treatment he uses—and how much he charges.

Again, not that I really care. Price isn’t an issue. By the time I’m done with the bitch, he’ll be past his sell-by date.

He’s a pro. When he’s down to a jockstrap and socks, he puts the shoes back on. I’m on him the moment he stands back up, throwing him up against the wall face first. As I press against his back, he moans and shudders with pleasure. I force his hands back and slip a zip tie around his wrists before he realizes it.

The fucktoy starts complaining. Wants to charge more for kinky stuff. I slam his face into the wall, stunning him. Kinky? Little fucker has no idea.

I wrap duct tape around his head a couple of times to seal off his mouth. No more complaints. I toss him onto the bed on his back and climb on top of him. He’s just starting to wise up as I plow my dick into his ass. He opens his eyes wide and glares at me, struggling to slide out from under me.

That’s when I pull out the bag.

It’s a plastic bag from the cleaners. It’s perfect. A couple of twists around the head and it’ll cut off all air but I’ll still be able to see his face. I’ll blow my load as I watch him die.

He sees it coming. He squirms away in terror, his cries muffled behind the tape. He knows what is happening here; he’s a professional whore who knows the risks.

He knows he’s in for a long, slow death.

For the first few seconds, he lays there, huge liquid brown eyes staring into mine. Then the little free air he has starts to go bad and the panic sets in. He starts squirming again, trying to kick at me with those long firm legs. I grin at him and give the bag another twist around his neck.

Now he’s really panicking. He’s blindly shaking his head. Inside the bag, the temperature is going up each time the fuckboy exhales. Sweat beads dot the boy’s forehead and cheeks. The bag is now being pulled tight against his face with each attempt to inhale; his nose is profiled in plastic.

I can feel every single time he attempts to breathe. He’s struggling so hard his body goes rigid with the strain and his sphincter tightens around my meat like a cockring. It’s incredible; it’s totally a reflexive action on his part. He has no idea that his dying spasms are giving me the best fuck I’ve had in a while.

So maybe I should let him know. I jerk his head up towards me, shaking him harshly to get his attention.

He’s writhing against me, his skin slick with perspiration, the sweat of extreme bodily crisis—of death. His legs flail aimlessly against my back and my ass. I can feel those black and blue shoes digging at me but he can’t muster up enough force to really hurt me. His brain is starting to shut down and he doesn’t have the coordination.

His beautiful olive-skinned face is much darker now. His mouth is gaping, the plastic bag forming a concave surface over the opening. His muffled grunts have increased in pitch, caused by a combination of fear and lack of oxygen. Even now, though, they are becoming quieter and farther apart. His movements seem to become less deliberate; he’s nearing the point of brain death. I can’t tell if there’s anything left inside the twitching sack of meat that’s jerking me off—but just in case, I thought I’d let it know…

His face is dark and grimaces spasmodically, uncontrollably. Even though I can feel his rock-hard uncut cock against my belly, a pool is spreading across the whore’s own stomach. He’d pissed himself just before the involuntary hard-on.

His rectum seems to flow in waves along the shaft of my dick. Each one is slightly slower and yet slightly more intense than the last. Suddenly, the fuckmeat goes rigid and I realize that he’s in the final moments of life. Somewhere deep inside, he’s accepted what must be and is using his last seconds on earth to earn my seed.

His blackened face clenches in the final physical agony of death. His entire body shudders; the slightest nuance of each quiver is transmitted to the head of my cock by the fuckmeat’s agile colon.

As I spew load after uncontrollable burning load into the dying slut’s hole I yank the bitch’s head up with one hand and start punching him in the face with the other because my orgasm is so intense I’ll start screaming otherwise and wake the neighbors…

A few minutes pass before I’m fully functional again. I’m still hard and still buried deep in the whore’s ass. The meat is still quivering around my dick, but it’s the uncoordinated spasms of the freshly dead. I need to get cleaned up.

I can’t keep this toy around too long; after all, I did steal it from my neighbor. But I might be able to play with it one more time. That gaping mouth looks inviting…

It wasn’t love at first sight—not at all—but it was certainly lust at first glance. Jason was bored out of his mind, standing in the concession line. He’d agreed to meet Sam in the food court of the mall before going to the theater, but like a fool, Jason had bought his ticket and gone inside before he got Sam’s text. Asshole bailed on him. So he was standing here waiting for overpriced popcorn before going to see a movie he’d already seen and hadn’t really liked.

Looking around, he noticed the dude standing next to him, in a parallel line (and moving just as slowly). He was instantly hard.

The guy was older than Jason—early thirties, perhaps. He could easily have passed for younger but for the tightness about his mouth and jaw and the lines that gave his eyes a squint. His hair was a mass of golden curls like that found on cherubim, but there was nothing else cherubic about him. He was very well-built and dressed to show it off. A simple white cotton t-shirt stretched tightly over his chest, looking at least two sizes too small. The nipples on his hubcap-like pecs would have been visible had he not been wearing a leather vest.

His narrow waist was circled by a thick black leather belt; the shirt was tucked into a pair of tight but very worn jeans. A slash on the left side revealed a bulge of thigh dusted with a fine gold fur. The knee was worn away on the right leg. The jeans had no further tears; they continued complete until they vanished into the tops of his black engineer boots.

As if he knew he was being looked at, the dude turned and stared directly at Jason, his thick arms flexing as he turned, revealing some tattoos—zodiacal symbols, Jason thought. Then he caught the dude’s eye. His eyes were still in a squint, but head-on, they were an unnerving ice-blue. Jason felt like he was being appraised like a side of beef.

He was well-dressed beef himself. He hadn’t set out today to get fucked—but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to get fucked. Even Sam, although that had gotten old for both of them. At any rate, he was an eighteen-year-old faggot mallrat and had dressed for sexual success.

He hadn’t needed much to enhance his natural assets; his face, clear and smooth, drew older men like a magnet anyway. He looked younger than his years and much less experienced than he really was. His brown hair was swept to a point in front and kept short behind. He was wearing a maroon t-shirt that clung to his slim but firm torso.

His tight low-rise jeans exposed flesh at the waist; in the back, a starburst tattoo could be seen just above the crack of Jason’s ass—his tramp stamp, so to speak. The jeans wrapped around his slender but defined legs. The shiny black hightop sneakers on his feet were loose, the tongues sticking out.

It was what the dude seemed to notice. At any rate, his assessment of Jason started with his shoes and worked its way up, making him feel even more like meat. It was incredible; Jason had never felt so judged on the basis of sexual utility before; it was like the guy was trying to decide if he wanted to buy a sex toy.

He got even harder at the thought. His skinny jeans were too tight to let him hide it. The man’s expression became a sneer of amused contempt when his gaze reached Jason’s crotch. He kept going up to take in his torso and—momentarily—his face, but he’d already seen what he’d needed to.

His steely blue eyes locked onto Jason large dark ones and he jerked his head towards the exit. He left the line, striding swiftly towards the door. Jason followed automatically, as if pulled along by the head of his dick.

Jason had followed lots of guys into the restrooms in the mall, but not too many outside. If they were hot enough, he’d go out and get fucked in their car. But they had to be really fucking hot.

He’d let this guy fuck him in the food court. He had no qualms whatsoever about following the man out to his car. He was willing to endure damn near anything to get this stud to drill his hole.

Exactly how much he was willing to endure was about to be tested to—and beyond—the breaking point.

It was a long walk. The alpha dude had parked way out at the end of the lot; Jason was winded by the time he got there. Once the man had opened the door, he slipped into the passenger seat gratefully. The dude climbed into the driver’s seat. Jason turned to him and had a brief impression of a fist before he had no impressions of anything at all.

His next awareness was of pain; it took a while to sort out exactly what was hurting. His face hurt and his left eye was swollen shut. But his hands hurt too, and his arms were in an awkward position.

As Jason began to sort out his physical sensations and the world swam up out of the depths, he came to understand his position. He was on his back, his arms up over his head with some sort of ligature around his wrists, painfully constricting the blood flow.

The dude; the hot blonde dude he’d followed out to the car. Jason realized he’d been assaulted.

He looked around frantically. He could barely see out of his left eye but his right eye worked fine. He was in a room. A small room, painted white, utterly bare except for the mattress on which he was laying. He couldn’t see what his hands were bound to above his head, but whatever it was, it was very firmly attached.

The dude was standing over him. He’d removed the vest and t-shirt and was rubbing one hand over the massive bulge in his groin while the other pulled and manipulated a nipple. “Good, you’re awake,” he chuckled, “I was afraid you might miss this.” Both his nipple and his dick grew erect under his handling.

“You know what’s happening here,” the older man said as he bent forward. His shark-like grin appeared for a moment just before his head was silhouetted by the overhead light, his hair becoming a halo of golden froth as he leaned in menacingly.

Jason whimpered in fear, in the realization of his surrender of control to this unknown and evidently malevolent entity. He had no idea what was happening; he thought he was gonna get raped—but he was still fully dressed. What the fuck was this dude doing?

The older man couldn’t help but notice the boy’s trepidation. He chuckled in predatory anticipation. He leaned forward again, placing his left foot on the bed. As he did so, there was a tearing sound and the denim on his left leg parted, the existing tear widening as the dude’s huge thigh muscle flexed within it and stretched it beyond its bounds.

The man paused and looked down at the material hanging loosely under his furry leg. His hand moved down to his boot. Jason arced his neck to follow him and noticed for the first time that something was sticking up from inside the alpha stud’s right boot. It was clearly a handle with a full molded grip, including finger holes, looking like nothing so much as a set of brass knuckles covered in black rubber.

As the blond dude’s hard hand closed on it and pulled up, it became obvious that it was the hilt of a knife. A long, wicked-looking knife. The blade was at least seven inches long. The four inches closest to the tip gleamed with a razor-like ferocity, then came another couple of inches of vicious serrations designed to rip tender skin apart irreparably.

The dude withdrew the knife slowly from his boot sheath, looking Jason straight in the eye while maintaining a cold smirk on his face. Jason felt himself entranced, the way snakes are said to entrance birds in folklore. The introduction of the weapon seemed to sap his will.

The older man cut away the torn leg of his jeans, first near his thigh, then slitting the leg all the way down and pulling off the remainder. He was now standing over Jason shirtless, his golden hair gilding his sculpted pecs and firm six-pack abs, his large dark nipples protruding like fireplugs. His right leg was still in worn pale denim down to his engineer boot, but his left leg was bare from the hip down. A white tube sock clung to his muscled calf above his left boot.

Despite his fear and physical discomfort, Jason was still turned on beyond belief. He knew that this was gonna end badly for him and the thought scared the shit outta him, but maybe—just maybe—the dude wouldn’t hurt him. Maybe he just wanted to dominate him.

Jason was enough of a slut to enjoy being treated like a slut. This guy didn’t need a knife to fuck him, but if he got off by fucking Jason at knifepoint, Jason didn’t care. As long as he got to have this stud’s cum inside him…

The dude didn’t have to unzip his fly. He was commando under his jeans. His huge tool was already stiff and poking out from under the ragged edge of the cut-off denim. Thick and heavily-veined, it was oozing clear precum as the man surveyed his captive fucktoy.

He suddenly bent over Jason, whose heart leaped into his mouth with fear. The dude saw that, too, and laughed outright. “Don’t worry, cunt,” he grinned, “I ain’t stickin’ this in ya yet. First, I gotta get to ya.” And with that, he cut Jason’s shirt off, revealing his firm, slim chest heaving in fear and excitement.

Abruptly, the man threw himself on top of Jason, grabbing a fistful of his hair and jerking his head back. His face less than six inches from Jason’s, his gaze drilled directly into the startled and scared punk’s eyes. He spit in the boy’s face before stroking his face with the tip of his blade, not quite breaking the skin.

“Yeah, you like fuckin’ bitch, you want me inside ya? Huh? That what ya want, faggot? Don’t matter, it’s what you’re gonna get. I’m gonna stick all kinda things in you and you’re gonna like it, you worthless fuckpig!”

Jason whimpered again, not realizing how his fear only added fuel to the older man’s lust. He closed his eyes and, gritting his teeth in determination, turned his head to the side as the hard dude ran the blade down from his face—moving slowly, oh so slowly and lovingly—over his throat and down his slick smooth chest.

“I know what you want, you fucking faggot cunt. I know what you been lookin’ for. Don’t worry, bitch, I’m gonna make it hurt so good you won’t be able to tell my long hot dick from my long cold blade. All you’re gonna know is that I’m stickin’ ya good, like the worthless fucking pig you are.”

He left the knife on Jason’s belly. It slipped and slid on the sheen of sweat that Jason was oozing in a state of terror.

He’d wanted to get fucked. That was all. Whatever was going on here, it was gonna…

He couldn’t let himself finish the thought. He simply wasn’t able to process it. He’d been picking up guys in the mall for three years now but he’d never imagined that he was in any danger beyond that of an STD.

That changed the moment the dude grabbed the knife and slammed it up his ass, slicing a hole in his jeans, shorts—and sphincter. There was a momentary pause that lasted eons and then the knife sliced its way back out, a long, smooth icy-cold slash in his colon…

The pain was like a tsunami. It paralyzed him. He shuddered, gasping, his eyes wide and staring at the dude’s face with an expression of absolute horror. The man returned it with a cheerful grin and as Jason inhaled deeply, instinctively driven to scream, he was aware of a flash of movement on his left side and had just enough time to realize that the hilt of the knife was indeed a set of rubber-coated brass knuckles when another burst of pain in his face took him under…

When he surfaced from the pool of darkness, he was still swimming in a sea of pain. His ass—Jason had never known such pain existed. And now he was getting fucked through the wound.

The dude was raping him through the hole he’d cut in Jason’s jeans. Jason’s legs, still encased in tight jeans, were spread out as the man lay on top of him, pumping and thrusting his engorged shaft into Jason’s torn and bleeding hole. The kid’s hightop sneakers kicked in the air in agony as he twisted his arms fruitlessly against whatever restraints were binding them—he couldn’t see over his head and by now he’d lost the sensation in his hands due to the tightness of the ligature.

“Fuck yeah, cunt, had to cut your fuckhole open so it could handle my horse dick. Knew ya’d be cool with it, motherfucker, since you ain’t gonna be usin’ it once I’m done with it anyway. Now just relax what’s left of your asshole and enjoy what’s coming, slut.”

Jason looked up into the face hanging over him, a face gleeful in demonic lust. He was desperate to speak, to beg and plead for his life but his mouth was jammed full of something—an acrid scent of sweat—he realized the dude had shoved his t-shirt into Jason’s mouth to stifle his screams.

The next few minutes were not preserved in Jason’s memory; moments of blind panic rarely are. By the time they subsided, Jason was swimming in the sea of pain again, accompanied by the sound of cruel laughter.

“Ya done kickin’ yet, cocksucker?” the hard dude sneered. He spit in Jason’s face, then thrust his cock deep inside the kid’s torn and bleeding rectum, lying flat on top of him and stroking his face with the blade again. “Whaddaya think, fuckwad? Where do ya wanna get stuck next? Or ya wanna kick and jerk some more first? Just let me know, cause your kickin’ feels great on my cock.”

Jason’s screams of agonized terror were muffled to faint squeals by the rank t-shirt shoved into his mouth. His hands were useless; the flow of blood had been cut off by the restraints and they were little more than lumps of cold flesh. He kicked and jerked his legs but his jeans were so tight they hindered his movement. The heels of his shiny black sneakers couldn’t reach the dude’s back to leave any marks; no matter how much he thrashed, his jeans wouldn’t let him bend his legs far enough.

The blond man with the ice-blue eyes knew what he was doing. It was obvious in the calm and collected way he dragged the tip of the knife over Jason’s slim but muscular torso, allowing the anticipation of the first thrust, the first ice-cold blast of agony, to build for them both. He was setting Jason up for an experience that would fuse pain and pleasure in a way he’d never known possible.

First, he needed complete control of his victim; this was done by inducing shock. A quick jerk of the wrist and the knife sliced into Jason’s left flank. Seven inches of cold carbon steel pierced deep into the teen slut’s kidney as seven inches of hard throbbing cock tore into his colon. Jason was aware of both; it was a sensation he had never known could exist. His muted cry became a moan as adrenaline flooded his system and his body went into neurochemical overload.

His lithe, hard body, soaked in sweat, writhed against the blond dude’s chest, matting his fur with the kid’s rank perspiration. The alpha dude gave a gasp as Jason’s slashed sphincter fluttered against the base of his cock. He twisted the knife in the wound, shredding Jason’s left kidney as the punk grunted in agony and kicked his shoes helplessly in the air.

“Ya likin’ that, fuckpig? You’re squealing like a fuckin’ pig in heat, so I guess ya do. I knew you were such a slut you didn’t care what I stuck in ya. Fucking cunt. You wanted a real man to show you your place. Well, ya got it, motherfucker. Your place is kicking your life away on the end of my cock, and I’m about to grant your whore cunt wish!”

Jason shook his head wildly, in denial, in panic, in self-defense. It had no effect whatever and he knew it. What he couldn’t understand, in the middle of the horrible agony that was being forced upon him, was why some of the worst pain he was experiencing was in his own cock, which was swelling and oozing uncontrollably.

This guy was raping him and killing him. He couldn’t be right. This couldn’t be what he wanted, Jason thought—but his dick said otherwise. It was swollen and purple, slapping against the dude’s belly as he got fucked, each impact leaving a spatter of precum in the alpha dude’s fur.

“Ready for it, cunt?” whispered the alpha blond, his blue eyes gleaming as he closed in for the kill. “Ready to experience pain beyond your worst nightmare? Ready to feel my cock spasm and pump your faggot asshole full of hot seed as I shove this blade into your head? Not that I fuckin’ care; I just want you to know what’s happening. See, I think it’s gonna take a little while for you to die. I sure the fuck hope so; I want you to enjoy this as much as I’m gonna. Feel it and enjoy it, you motherfucking faggot cunt; I’m gonna fill your ass with my spunk and your brain with my blade.”

His eyes were almost insane with lust and contempt as he spit one last time into Jason’s face and placing the tip of his blade under his jaw, as far back as he could, angled it directly up and began inserting it into the back of Jason’s oral cavity where the mouth met the esophagus.

As he’d promised, he did it slowly, allowing Jason to enjoy every agony-soaked moment of death. As the blade moved upwards, it sliced through the base of Jason’s tongue. Even in the excruciating nightmare of pain that followed, Jason was aware of the dude’s larger, harder, more muscular body holding him down and preventing him from thrashing too violently. He could also feel the alpha male’s long hard cock, like a hot shaft of iron, pinning him to the stained mattress.

In an almost idle moment of lucidity, Jason glanced around the bare white walls of the room and had time to vaguely wonder where he was dying. He would never know. He’d never know if his killer was caught. All he knew from this point on was the overwhelming agony of a brutal death.

“You’re getting’ loose, man,” leered the alpha male, “I guess I cut you open too soon. That’s ok, though. Wait till I get this sharp metal shaft into your sinuses. You’ll feel the crunch as I rip my blade through your skull. Fuckin-A, you fuckin’ piece a’ shit, you’re gonna taste blood and steel in your brain as you soak up my sperm. Ready for it, cuntwad, ready for that last grunt and thrust as I bury my cock in your worthless guts and my blade in your useless brain?”

Jason squealed like the pig in heat he was. He knew that he was utterly helpless in the hands of this man. He could only hold on in agony and terror, hoping for the mercy of a quick death. The fact that his dick was erect and straining, a steady stream of precum oozing from the tip, was beyond his control.

As the knife slashed up through his sinus tissue, Jason experienced a horrifying mortal pain, the pain that can only lead to death. His body instinctively clenched in resistance, tightening his ravaged sphincter around his killer’s raging erection. Each crunch of the blade tearing through the thin bone structure inside the skull reverberated in Jason’s head, amplifying the pain and contacting his anus, bringing more pleasure to the alpha dude.

One last thrust was all that was needed. A quick jerk of the dude’s wrist and Jason ceased to exist. A meat puppet jerked and spasmed, shooting great streams of semen uncontrollably, splashing the blond man’s chest and face. The alpha male grasped the thrashing meat, placing his hands on both shoulders and forcing the faggot’s convulsing corpse down to the root of his cock, draining every drop of sperm into the flailing colon.

Jason fell into a howling vortex of pain and orgasm. The dude had been right. He was in a place where he could no longer tell pain from pleasure; it was as if he was shooting agonizing razor blades from his cock while someone fucked his skull and was shooting a load in his brain.

Jason died awash in semen. He never knew where he died or the name of the man who killed him.

There was a guy. A trick. I was gonna suck him off. He picked me up, I was in his car—that’s the last thing I remember.

My head hurts bad. Did he hit me?

He was just few years older than me and he told me how much he liked the tight jeans I was wearing. Even liked these new Nikes I got.

He’s got longer hair than I do and he’s just wearing a white t-shirt and a black leather jacket. Looks like he’s got work boots on. Thought he was they typical construction worker. They can get rough sometimes; maybe he started punching me.

So why am I tied down? What’s he doing? I can’t remember—it’s all fuzzy in my head—but I don’t think I’d started blowing him yet.

Oh my god the pain it’s crushing my throat the pressure in my head building oh fuck it hurts so bad oh god I didn’t know I was gonna die today I didn’t know it would hurt so bad so why is my dick getting hard

he likes it he’s tightened the rope around one hand what’s he doing

his dick and my dick; he’s beating us off simultaneously

fireworks they look just like fireworks but they’re black that sound is too loud I can’t hear anything else

oh his snarling face and hate-filled eyes that stare into mine, even in the pain I can see them clearly

he wants me to die so he can cum and I can’t stop him he’s killing me just so he can get his rocks off but I’m getting hard too what’s happening

gah nothing but his eyes and my cock I can feel chest it wants to explode and my throat is crushed oh god I can feel my
trachea crunch beneath the rope as he clenches his steel-hard muscles I can’t stop him I can’t

A chill wind swept across the highway, forcing the Trucker to grip the wheel tightly. Pale, watery winter light seeped across the empty expanse of desert. The Trucker hadn’t seen another vehicle in over an hour; he was on a state highway, not an interstate.

As a freelancer who owned his own rig, the Trucker was able to accept spontaneous consignments when it was convenient for him. After dropping his load of textiles at a depot in Chicago, he’d taken on an order of mixed goods for a chain of dollar stores operating primarily in small towns. It involved frequent stops in out-of-the-way places that were difficult to access. Maneuvering a semi on two-lane highways and in one-stoplight towns required a great deal of precision; the Trucker built up a lot of stress.

Luckily, he had a way of working it off.

He’d gone southwest out of Chicago and ran into some nasty winter weather while in Nebraska–which probably explained what had happened to that poor Sioux boy he’d picked up there. The Trucker loved a nice slow strangle, letting the dying whore’s convulsions milk the spunk out of his cock. Edged weapons were fun on occasion, but he really wasn’t into gore that much.

So it must have been stress that made him take the beautiful indian with the long, straight black hair and the smooth flat belly to a motel room and eviscerate him.

But that was several states ago. Now he was heading west across barren wastelands; his final stop was a small town south of Vegas. He’d come this way not long before; the motel where he’d met the Marine was about a hundred miles south of where he was now.

So here he was, crawling along a winding road in the desert on a cold winter day. He was going especially slowly at the moment since the wind was up; the last thing he needed was to catch a gust while rounding a curve and getting tipped.

As the huge steering wheel slipped in his strong, rough hands as he came out of the curve, the sun was in his eyes and he almost didn’t see the hitchhiker. And that would have been a shame. Even on a busy highway, the boy would have been worth stopping for.

Out here in the middle of nowhere, no one would even notice he was gone.

The kid looked like a hipster college kid. Early twenties at the oldest. Old enough to know better than to be out here hitching.

The Trucker had been going slowly around the curve; he was able to ease over onto the shoulder without going too far past the boy. He watched the kid approach in the side mirror, his dick getting harder as the youth got closer.

The hitcher was tall and lean, at least six feet. He had short, rust-brown hair in tight curls that wrapped his head and slid down his cheeks to blend seamlessly with his full beard and mustache, both trimmed very short. His lanky body shifted, displaying his muscles under his tight clothes as he strutted down the dusty, litter-strewn shoulder.

He wore what looked a pseudo-rugby shirt with broad, colorful horizontal stripes clinging to and outlining his well-formed pecs. Over it, he wore a distressed brown leather bomber jacket. It was unzipped but blocked the wind well enough.

Below the waist, he wore dark jeans so tight they looked as if they had been painted on. The Trucker could see the kid’s thick thigh muscles pumping as he walked. The jeans were tucked into a pair of black leather boots that rose to mid-calf, with thick soles and straps on each side to help pull them on.

As the boy climbed up to the door and his grinning, cheerful face appeared in the window, the Trucker noticed the backpack slung over his shoulder. Almost certainly a college kid, but even so, best not to take any chances. Only one of them was gonna survive the next hour–it was gonna be him. Hitchers could be dangerous, but the Trucker wasn’t gonna give this one the chance.

He turned in his seat and leaned back casually, smiling welcomingly as the door opened.

From this angle, the kid could see that the Trucker’s right arm was hanging over the back of the seat but he couldn’t see the tire iron clenched in the Trucker’s hand.

“C’mon in,” the Trucker. “Where ya headed?” He started the rig moving again, easing back onto the highway.

“Cali,” piped the boy as he settled into the passenger seat. “Going back to UCLA.”

“Well, I can get ya as far as Vegas. I go north after that.”

The kid leaned back, casually lounging in the seat, his long legs spread and the thick bulge in his crotch very visibly highlighted by the low winter sun streaming through the windshield. He gave a big goofy grin and a thumbs-up to indicate his acquiescence. He shifted the thick soles of his big black boots on the floorboard.

The Trucker smiled to himself, knowing the little hipster punk wouldn’t make it to Nevada, much less Cali.

“Dude, you hitch much?” he asked the kid. “Ever run into trouble?”

The boy turned to him. The Trucker noticed his eyes for the first time. Very large, very green, ringed with long lashes that gave his broad face more than a hint of vulnerability. His expression was puzzled. “Yeah, I hitch all the time. What kinda trouble ya talkin’ about?”

“No one ever try to do anything to ya? Y’know, get ya into the middle of nowhere and make ya do something you didn’t want to do?”

The kid shook his head. “Naw, man, ain’t nobody try to do anything to me.” He continued to lounge back in the large passenger seat of the semi cab. His leather jacket had draped open and the bright horizontal stripes on his shirt rose and fell with sculpted contours of his muscled chest.

The Trucker had been slowly downshifting during the conversation, letting the rig drift to a stop on the shoulder. He hadn’t seen another car in an hour. He parked and turned to the boy. “So I guess the first time will be the last, huh?” He smiled gently into the punk’s confused face and brought his arm up with lighting speed.

The kid grunted as the tire iron cracked against the side of his head. He went limp instantly, blood trickling from a small cut where the iron rod had split the skin on his temple.

The Trucker slipped out of his seatbelt and unfastened the one holding the unconscious boy in his seat. He dragged the limp dead weight into the rear of the cab—the sleeper compartment.

He quickly unbuttoned his shirt, leaving himself bare to the waist. He hung it neatly on a hook on the driver’s side of the compartment before pulling the privacy curtain closed and sealing it.

Now anyone approaching the cab from outside would have no way of seeing what was going on in the sleeper—not that there was anyone within fifty miles. But still, the Trucker preferred his fun uninterrupted.

Kneeling down, he carefully pulled the boy’s jacket off, then pulled his shirt off over his head, revealing his smooth, firm chest and flat hard belly. Reaching into the rear pocket of his tight, faded jeans, he pulled out a folding knife.

The Trucker knelt down and began slicing the tight hipster skinny jeans off the kid’s taut smooth legs, pulling them up and out of his boots. The little slut had been going commando under his jeans—of course. Now he was nude except for his black leather boots and white tube socks. As he leaned over the limp boy, a faint jingling sound filled the air. Dogtags—his trophy from his last kill in this state.

The bunk was small but adequate enough for the Trucker’s needs. It supported his muscular bulk when he needed to rest. And it was strong enough to resist the struggles of a dying cunt.

The Trucker quickly bound the hitcher’s hands behind his back with a zip tie before throwing him onto the bunk and spreading his legs. He paused for a moment to free his swollen, throbbing cock from the confines of his tight jeans. The thick purple head flopped out, dripping clear precum onto the tips of his own desert camo combat boots, the drops leaving dark stains on the pale brown toes.

He reached down, massaging the throbbing tube of meat, waiting calmly. He was gonna take his time and enjoy himself. This little fuck was gonna get used oh so hard…

The boy began to groan and jerk on the bunk, slowly waking up. He shook his head side to side, writhing urgently, trying to free his arms. His eyes blinked blearily several times, tears of pain and confusion welling in their emerald depths.

“Wha-what’s goin’ on?” he slurred, trying to focus on the muscular, half-nude man standing over him, brandishing a tire iron—and a huge, terrifying erect cock. It didn’t make any sense…

“Here’s what’s going on, you worthless little motherfucker,” barked the Trucker, a deep timbre of confidence adding an authoritative rumble to his bass voice. “I’m gonna fuck you in the ass. I’m gonna crush your throat with this tire iron while my dick tears your fuckhole open. I’m gonna hurt you, cunt. And the more you hurt, the better it feels on my cock. So get ready, slut, you’re gonna die sometime in the next hour—and before you do, you’re gonna go through such agony, death will be the greatest gift I can give you.”

The boy whimpered and moaned. It was obvious his privileged little hipster brain was unable to comprehend the nightmare world in which he now found himself.

The Trucker grinned. Perfect—the little stud was exactly where he wanted him, paralyzed with terror. “Time to saddle up, cunt. Ya ready, bitch? Ready to get the livin’ shit fucked outta ya? Don’t worry; I’ll make sure you blow your load as you die. You won’t miss out on the fun, meat, though your brain will probably be too dead for ya to enjoy it. That’s ok, though; you’re only here so I can cum—it don’t matter if you feel your death load. All I want you to feel is the horror and pain of death.”

The Trucker knelt on the bunk and grabbed the boy’s booted left ankle with his right hand, forcing both legs up, revealing the tender pink flesh of the hitcher’s quivering asshole. Already oozing with anticipation, the Trucker spit a gob of saliva as lube onto the pale pulsing puckered rosebud, then plunged his swollen mushroom tip into the kid’s colon with no warning.

The young bearded punk opened his eyes wide, his long lashes framing the pain of the intense assfuck, as he screamed in rage as much as agony. “Get off me, you fuckin’ psycho!” he wailed, “stop it! Fuck! Please, dear god, stop it now! Don’t do this, please don’t do this…”

He trailed off into hot snotty tears of humiliation as the Trucker’s thick shaft drove deeper into his rectum, tearing the lining of his colon. The fresh blast of pain, the sensation of razor blades being thrust deep inside him, brought forth a renewed volley of shrieks, the boy now flailing frantically against the Trucker’s overpowering strength.

The Trucker had anticipated every moment already. He’d done this many, many time before and knew what to expect by now. There was a crazed look on the meat’s face, the look of panic and self-preservation—the ultimate animal within the hipster, coming out to fight for his life.

It was futile. As much as he struggled, as desperately as he thrashed and flailed to save his life, he was caught in the iron grip of a sexual sadist and there would be no easy escape from his suffering.

The Trucker leaned forward and grabbed the kid’s hair. Pulling back and up, he drove his other hand, balled into a hard fist, into the punk’s face repeatedly. “There ya go, cunt,” he grunted, timing the blows to the face with the brutal thrusts of his swollen cock up the boy’s bleeding ass. “That get ya in the mood, bitch? That what it takes to get ya hot and horny? I know, slut, you gotta get tenderized before you can enjoy a good fuck. Ya need a man who can show you your place. And your place is dying on the thick dripping tip of my dick before I toss your cum-filled corpse into a ditch to rot like the garbage you are, ain’t that right, cunt? Don’t the thought just make ya wanna blow yer useless faggot load right now? No? Well, maybe this’ll help…”

With a single swift motion, the Trucker rose up on his knees. Digging the steel-lined toes of his combat boots into the bunk for traction, his tight jeans straining against the bulging, thrusting muscles in his thighs, he elbowed the kid’s smooth, taut legs, still encased to mid-calf in the tall black motorcycle boots, to each side. He paused for a moment, holding the huge tire iron horizontally in front of him, gripping it tightly, one hand at each end.

He threw himself down violently, driving the hard iron rod into the boy’s throat just above the Adam’s apple. The cunt’s eyes bulged frantically as his airway collapsed under the pressure. The excruciating pain in his rectum was now overtaken by the agony in his throat; he stopped fighting the fuck and began fighting the kill.

The smooth, bearded youth grunted inarticulately, jerking his arms in a desperate attempt to free his bound hands. “Nnnng! Gah! Gak!” he croaked, eyes wide with terror as he realized that forcing a tiny amount of air out of his closed-off windpipe was easier than getting any in.

The punk went into full panic mode, violently thrashing his firm body, the zipties digging cruelly and painfully into his struggling wrists. The Trucker gave a deep, shuddering sigh as the boy’s rectum began to spasm on his cock—and suddenly there was a knocking at the driver’s door.

With a single swift motion, the Trucker, swooped down and grabbed the boy’s striped shirt off the floor of the compartment. Tossing the tire iron aside, he balled the shirt up and jammed it into the kid’s mouth, letting him gag on the salty tang of his own sweat.

“Just a moment,” he yelled as he grabbed a belt from the dresser behind him and looped it around the punk’s boots, tightening it and tying it off. The hitcher was still struggling to recover from the crushing pain in his throat to attempt more than token resistance.

The Trucker slipped his arms into his button-down shirt but didn’t have time to button it; he merely slipped out from behind the curtain into the front part of the cab.

It was a state trooper knocking at the door.

The Trucker opened the door and climbed out warily. His combat boots settled firmly into the steps built into the outside of the cab as he came down to the pavement and turned to the trooper.

He found himself staring into the icy blue eyes of a younger man, very well built. He wore a dark button-down shirt, the short sleeves of which bulged around the trooper’s biceps. His broad chest strained the buttons on his shirt. Thick legs in khaki slacks descended to calf-high black leather boots, shiny as a mirror. A peaked cap sat above the strong-jawed face, on top of buzz-cut hair so short that the color was impossible to discern. Smaller than the Trucker, but nearly as well-built.

Controlling his lust, the Trucker asked, “Can I help you, officer?”

“Yeah,” drawled the Trooper, “why ya stopped on the side of the road here?”

“Man, I been drivin’ for a while,” the Trucker replied easily. “Pulled over to make a cup of coffee in the back.” He jerked his head towards the sleeping compartment.

In the back, in the dark, the young bound boy heard the exchange and realized that this would be his last chance to survive. He needed to contact the cop somehow. He began to squirm on the bunk, snot and tears of desperation leaking into his russet beard. His hands were in fiery agony with lack of blood flow; his firm smooth thighs jerked as he attempted to kick his tied legs.

Outside, the Trooper didn’t hear anything; he seemed to be more interested in the Trucker than anything else. His eyes roamed the length and breadth of the older man’s phenomenal physique; a light in his eyes that was strongly akin to lust. The light reflected from a metallic glint of a pair of small metal objects nestled deep in the Trucker’s wiry chest hair.

The Trooper noticed that it was pair of dogtags. Something triggered in the back of his mind, but the sense of desire had overwhelmed him; he filed it away for later review…

It took a moment for him to regain his composure.

He snapped back into character. “Anyway, I’m checking into a murder. Happen south of here a couple of weeks ago. Rig like yours was reported at the scene.”

The Trucker blinked at the Trooper in confusion. “What the hell is highway patrol doin’ with a homicide?”

The Trooper’s authority broke down for a moment. “Well, I ain’t, really. Just a project on my own time. Body was found in a motel on the highway just outside city limits and I happened to be the closest responder.”

The Trucker grinned down at the Trooper. “Just fillin’ some spare time, huh? Well, I’m on a Chicago-to-Vegas haul, man. Nothin’ to do with me. What happened?”

“Really fucking sick. Marine got raped and strangled—a male Marine. Faggot got what he deserved, if ya ask me, but if I can figure this out, I can get a promotion. Look, man, ya can’t stop here. Finish your coffee and go, buddy.”

“Sure thing,” grinned the Trucker, turning back to the cab nonchalantly. “Stay safe out there.”

“Thanks,” the young Trooper responded, his shiny tall boots scuffing the gravel on the highway shoulder as he walked back to his patrol car.

The Trucker lifted the edge of the privacy curtain and slipped behind it, shrugging off his shirt and re-hanging it before turning back to his captive fucktoy. He smiled coldly, seeing the boy’s tear-streaked face already going purple. He paused for a moment to watch the kid struggle and jerk as he slowly suffocated. He’d tried to cry out so hard he’d clogged his nose with snot and his shirt, now wet with his drool, was blocking his throat.

Suddenly the Trucker bent down, the dogtags jingling just above the hitcher’s bulging, terrified eyes. He jerked the sopping shirt out of the punk’s mouth. The boy gave a deep, sobbing gasp, shuddering as he sucked in air. “Not gonna get outta this that easy, cunt,” snarled his tormentor. “Fuck, you’re gonna wish you could by the time I’m done with you.”

The hitcher’s breathing grew ragged as his emerald eyes opened wide, glittering with panic in the half-light, his tight, smooth chest racked with sobs as he began to babble and plead. He’d already had a taste of the hell in store for him and had almost succumbed to death quietly in stunned silence, too shocked at the situation to resist.

Then the Trooper had come. For a moment—a very brief moment—the kid had thought his salvation was at hand. A rescuer, a knight on a white horse had come to save him.

The revelation that the only horse he’d be riding was a one-legged one into his grave had shattered his fragile hipster psyche. He mewled and cried like a bitch. “Please, oh god please don’t hurt me, man, please, don’t fuckin’ do this man, I swear I won’t say a word to anyone, just please god please let go…” His whining trailed off into snotty tears as the Trucker looked down at him contemptuously.

“Shut up, fuckwad,” he snapped, drawing back his right arm and driving his fist straight into the boy’s jaw, feeling the fucker’s rust-red beard scrape momentarily against his knuckles as the kid grunted, his head rocking back under the force of the blow. His jaw slammed shut; he bit his tongue, drawing blood, but he stopped trying to speak. The bound youth lay still and blubbered quietly.

The Trucker eased his still-swollen cock back out his tight jeans. Loosening the belt around the kid’s boots, he wrapped one end around his large fist and swung it savagely and repeatedly against the boy’s smooth ass. The punk screamed and squealed in pain, knowing that worse was to come, trying to brace himself against the agony he knew from painful experience would soon be spearing his ravaged, torn asshole.

It was worse than before. The brief brush with danger with the hot, hard Trooper had made the Trucker hornier than he already had been; his dick was swollen to almost unbelievable proportions, oozing a steady stream of clear precum from its enormous purple tip. The young hitcher screamed, his voice cracking from the terrible ripping pain in his rectum—an instinctive reaction to the horrifying agony. Even as he shrieked, the punk knew he was helpless; the Trooper had driven off and there was no one who could hear him.

“Fuck yeah, keep screaming, you motherfucker,” laughed the Trucker. “Dude, your vocal cords must be attached directly to your asshole, cause I can feel your screams on my dick, and they feel real fuckin’ good. Gotta make ya do more of that shit, fuck yeah!”

The young bearded punk jerked violently, trying to pull his torn, bleeding colon off the Trucker’s cock, thrashing his body convulsively, unable to free his legs from the firm grasp of the Trucker’s powerful arms. He twitched for several minutes before subsiding into a shuddering quiescence.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” the Trucker sneered as he drove his hard shaft deep into his victim’s ass. “Little fuckin’ faggots, always fightin’ the dick you know ya want. And all a’ ya end up worthless fucks anyway, gettin’ too loose to get me off. Stupid fuckin’ cunt, you ain’t no better than any of the others—how many cocks you taken up your fuckhole, whore, huh?”

Somewhere deep within himself, the suburban hipster college boy found the spirit to answer. “None!” he screamed, “I ain’t no fag! I ain’t been fucked!”

It was the worst—and last—mistake of his life. The Trucker liked his fucks submissive.

“God-damn-mother-fuckin’-punk!!” he screamed, slamming his balled-up fist into the hitcher’s face with each word; by the time he was done, the boy’s beard was streaked with blood, his left eye was swollen shut and his nose was broken.

The college kid was weeping in agony as the Trucker reached down and picked up the tire iron again. “Ok, fuckmeat, time to get what you’re here for. I wanna blow my load and that means it’s time for you to die. You already knew that, right? I mean, that’s all you’re here for—so you can die on my dick and make me cum. Useless motherfucker, that’s all you’re good for anyway, fuckin’ hipster college punk—think you’re hot shit? I’m gonna use you like a bitch and throw you out like the fuckin’ garbage you are!”

He held the tire iron horizontally in front of the weeping youth and drove it down with both hands, burying the thick iron shaft in the boy’s throat, crushing his esophagus. The kid’s eyes opened to an almost unbelievable width in horror as his oxygen was cut off.

The next few minutes were some of the worst of the college boy’s life. And some of the best of the Trucker’s. The youth’s firm, smooth body thrashed against him, lubed by the cold sweat of intense physical crisis, pumping his smooth velvet boycunt tightly along the Trucker’s engorged shaft.

The horrible crushing pain across his throat, the searing agony in his rectum, the irresistible pressure building up in his chest—the naïve kid’s mind was overwhelmed with the cold brutality of his own rape and murder. He was unable to comprehend what was happening; he could only fight instinctively against impending death. Every second of his agonized struggle prolonged the Trucker’s pleasure, and he made sure the hitcher knew it.

As the iron bar sank deeper into the boy’s throat, his face began to swell and change color. It went red, blending in with the color of his beard as his legs kicked violently in a reflexive attempt to break free; his tall leather boots scraping against the Trucker’s sweaty, flexing flanks. As the oxygen deprivation continued, the punk’s face grew darker and darker. His struggles grew more frantic; he jerked and kicked uncontrollably and would have thrust himself off the sleeper bunk if he hadn’t been pinned down by the thick purple shaft of the Trucker’s cock—almost the same shade of dark purple as the bitch’s face.

He increased the tempo of his thrusting to match the waves of convulsions the swept over the college boy’s lithe, smooth body. As his spine arched involuntarily, his flat belly and smooth muscled chest bent upward to press firmly against the Trucker’s much more developed torso, both hot bodies sliding together on a thin film of the kid’s death sweat.

Suddenly a loud crunching sound filled the sleeper compartment; the Trucker had applied enough pressure on the tire iron to crush the boy’s esophagus. The pain and horror registered in the kid’s bulging, frantic eyes. He continued to writhe impotently as his brain began to die; tightening his smooth, firm legs around the Trucker’s hard body, his big black boots digging at the Trucker’s pumping asscheeks.

The hipster punk started to drool as his consciousness began to fade into a fiery cold darkness. His tongue, swollen and dark, forced its way past his thick blue lips, foamy spittle spilling down his cheek to collect in a froth in the kid’s wiry beard, white bubbles on his rust-colored beard. His eyes lost their accusatory gleam and he stared at the Trucker with a dull, bulging gaze, emerald irises surrounded by the blood-red shading of ruptured vessels and petechiae blooming across his bewildered face.

As he slipped into the screaming icy hell of death, the unfortunate hitchhiker felt a last surge of warmth within himself, deep within his testicles. His brain was too damaged to realize that it was an instinctive response to extinction, an involuntary attempt to save his genetic material.

He also felt the surge of heat flowing into his rectum. He was too far gone to know that the Trucker was filling his guts with spunk, feeling the hot smooth punk die on his dick.

As the youth thrashed and died, his erect cock spewed a steady stream of semen, uncontrollably ejecting DNA in the ultimate last gasp of self-preservation. The Trucker grunted and hunched over; in the intense throes of orgasm, he began slamming his fist into the fucktoy’s face, feeling the satisfying crunch of cartilage as he pounded the punk’s already-broken nose.

Not that the hitcher felt it. His brain had shut down, his awareness faded with his life out of his dick, growing dimmer with each spurt of spunk, until all of him had been shot out onto the Trucker’s rippled belly, shiny with sweat.

The Trucker held the boy’s corpse close to him, each dying twitch of the bitch’s sphincter coaxing another blast of cum out of his engorged shaft. He felt himself thrusting brutally up the unnamed hitcher’s ass, pressing down with his arms until the there was a loud cracking sound, like the limb of a fresh green tree snapping—it was the faggot’s neck, vertebrae shattering under the force applied as the Trucker repeatedly spunked into the boy’s rectum.

For a long, long moment, there was a hard shaft of flesh injecting semen into warm, firm, smooth, twitching meat.

As the Trucker regained his breath, he withdrew his sticky, still-swollen member from the corpse’s ass. The hipster punk continued to quiver and convulse, random nerve endings causing his smooth, firm, cum-filled body to kick and jerk. His thick-soled boots scraped aimlessly against the bunk.

The Trucker rose up, spunk still dripping from his thick long cock. He grabbed a roll of paper towels and cleaned himself up, tucking his thick hog back into his tight jeans and slipping his shirt back on. He leisurely made a cup of coffee—exactly as he’d told the Trooper he would. Twenty minutes later, the Trucker slipped back into the driver’s seat, started the rig, and pulled out off the shoulder of the highway.

He didn’t pull over for another couple of hours. He’d found an isolated spot over a dry wash. He stopped on the shoulder and hauled the hitchhiker’s body out of the sleeper compartment. He still hadn’t seen any other vehicle, so he felt fairly safe as he dragged the corpse over the guardrail and dropped it into the culvert.

As he pulled out, the Trucker started to whistle. Next stop, he’d dispose of the cunt’s clothes. He had two more stops in the state, but there was no way anyone could connect him with this piece of rotting meat.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————–

Eight hours later, the Trooper stood over the stiffening body of a young man, nude but for white tube socks and calf-high black leather boots. Even from several yards away, the Trooper could see a pearly dried crust of semen that had oozed from the corpse’s torn rectum.

It’s been a while since I’ve actively hunted. Recently, meat seems to come to me of its own accord. Today, though, I’m out and stalking. After all, I need to keep my skills up.

I’m sitting in the parking lot of a strip mall. This isn’t a good part of town and most of the businesses here are closed or seriously under-staffed. The lot is practically empty–which is why the two punks I’ve got my eye on are here; they have a wide-open space to practice their moves.

The taller one is on a skateboard. He’s got a ball cap on over his shoulder-length black hair. He’s about twenty, with a faint goatee encircling his mouth. Skinny jeans, a black t-shirt and black hightops complete the look.

The other kid is shorter and might be a year or two younger. He’s on a bike. He’s dressed just like his friend, except his shirt is blue and his sneakers are white. His blond hair is straight and not quite as long as his buddy’s. His face is smooth and hairless. As he speeds by the spot where I’m parked, I see that his wallet is attached to a belt loop with a chain.

Since I’m guessing they’re under 21, I have an easy lure. I’m parked where they can clearly see me downing a beer. I’m not actually drinking alcohol; the last thing I need is to get pulled over for DWI. This is an open can filled with water. But there’s a case in the back of my van in case they take the bait.

And they do. Stupid little shits. They deserve every second of suffering I have planned for them.

It’s the younger one, the kid on the bike, who comes by first. Hesitantly, he asks to borrow a cigarette. Sure, no problem. His name is Tommy and his buddy is Jake, who soon joins us.

I offer them a beer. They accept eagerly and soon they’re both guzzling away in the back of my van. It’s been earlier than I expected.

I tell them I have weed back at my place if they’re interested. They are, so we head out. It’s during the drive to my killing pit that Jake mentions he’d rather find some heroin. Tommy seconds him. I grin knowingly as I let them know I can accommodate them with that as well.

I hadn’t tagged the little fucks as needle freaks. It makes them easier to subdue, but I’ll need to be careful. As I’ve said before, I’ll fuck the meat even if it dies of an overdose, but I prefer a fresh kill.

Once we’re back at the run-down house I’ve rented, I leave them in the living room while I get my stash. I haven’t had the chance to use this stuff on my prey in a while; it’s extremely pure. I go ahead and load the syringes myself; they’d OD right away if I let them do it themselves.

Tommy is still on the couch when I get back to the living room, but Jake is peering out the front window. I know what he’s looking at; the house across the street is a notorious crack house–which is exactly what I was looking for.

Sometimes the best place to hide is right out in front. That house is a magnet for any law enforcement in the neighborhood. It keeps the cops so busy no one even glances in my direction.

I get Jake’s attention and draw him back to the couch. It’s not long before he and Tommy have tied off and are grinning and joking with each other. I let them have their last bit of fun.

When it’s my turn for fun, they’ll be screaming, not smiling.

It hits them hard. Jake nods off. Tommy gives me a goofy grin as he sinks into acquiescence. As I pull him up off the couch and drag him into the bedroom, I glance back at Jake. He won’t be rescuing his friend; he’s unconscious and drooling.

Tommy stumbles along with me and flops limply onto the bed when I shove him down and start cutting his clothes off with a utility knife. I slice up each leg of his jeans, running my hands along his smooth, firm thighs. He moans but doesn’t resist at all. I slash at his waistband and yank off the jeans. His shorts and shirt come off with no problems as well.

He’s lying back on the bed, eyes closed, long blond hair spread in a fan around his hair. His thick cock presses flaccidly against his inner leg. I want to fuck him badly, but not yet. He’s gonna get tenderized first–he gets to watch while I make his friend into meat. Of course, I’ll need to secure him beforehand. I have just the contraption for that.

I have a new toy as well, and Tommy’s gonna help me play with it. I’m anxious to try it out since it’s kinda unwieldy and a bit bulky; I hope it works well.

It’s a nail gun.

The bed faces the door. At the head of the bed, I’ve attached a 4X4 post upright to a base; the post is about four and a half feet high. Nailed horizontally to the post is a long 2X4, the whole forming a T shape.

I drag Tommy around the post and stand him up so that he’s facing it and looking down at the head of the bed. He giggles and drools a little while I force him up against the post and fondle his ass. He barely stirs when I fasten a ball gag into his mouth. High as he is, he’s gonna want to scream here in a sec, when I secure him to the 2X4. And as hot as I think his screaming will be, he’s not up at bat right now. Order must be maintained.

Somewhere inside the stupid little bitch’s drug-fogged mind, an awareness creeps in that something isn’t right. I don’t give him a chance to jerk away, though. I place his left hand with the palm flat against the board. Then I snatch up the nail gun and drive a three-inch nail through the back of his hand into the board. It sinks in, the head making a dimple in the back of the fucker’s hand out of which blood drips.

He reacts more violently than I’d anticipated, but it doesn’t matter–he can’t move with his hand nailed to the post. His cries are muffled by the gag and even with the pain, he’s still too high to fight back. I quickly get his right hand nailed into place on the other side. He’s permanently attached to the post, facing it, helpless to protect himself when his time comes.

Tommy is snuffling and crying but not really able to make enough noise to alert Jake–who’s too drugged himself to do anything anyway. He turns his tear-stained face to me in confusion, but I’m already on my way out of the room to get his buddy.

Jake has regained consciousness but hasn’t moved; he’s still in place on the couch. Like Tommy, he knows something is wrong but the drug has rendered him helpless to protect himself. I’m able to pull him up and get him into the bedroom with no trouble. He sees Tommy at the post, but he’s still high enough that it doesn’t register.

I cut his clothes off as well but he stays on the bed. It doesn’t take me long to get him into position; I’ve had lots of practice at this. I bind his hands behind his back with handcuffs before laying him out on the bed face up. When I mount him, I’ll be able to look up directly into Tommy’s face.

Even better, Tommy will have to watch Jake get raped and killed, knowing that it’s going to happen to him as well.

Jake gets to have a little fun himself, of course, whether he wants to or not. I snake a thick leather cockring through the bush of hair at the base of his long plump dick, encircling his scrotum as well. The moment I snap it closed, his cock begins to darken and swell.

I can’t wait. I’m fully erect at the thought of plowing the punk’s hole while life seeps out of his body. Time to rock ‘n roll.

Jake gasps and moans when I stuff my tool deep inside him. He’s extremely tight–this must be excruciating but he’s still too drugged to cry out. I’m on my knees with my arms wrapped around his legs to fuck him missionary position. I look across to Tommy’s dazed and confused face.

“Damn,” I tell him, “your friend’s a good piece of fuckmeat. Hope you’re as tight as he is. I can’t fucking wait to find out. Feels so goddam good stretching out his ass–if you’re any tighter yourself, I’m gonna have to tear your hole when I stick my cock in your ass. It’ll hurt like a bitch for you, but it’ll feel even better on my dick than your buddy–and he feels great. The inside of his ass is like silk.”

Jake’s arms are twisted painfully behind him as he lies on his back, adding to his discomfort. His body rocks back and forth with each of my thrusts; my balls slap his ass rhythmically. It’s nice, but something is missing. I know what–and I know how to fix it. I get Tommy’s attention first.

“Hey, meat, this fuckwad’s getting loose. I’ve already stretched him out too much. Gotta tighten him back up. Lessee now, what can I do to make him clench up? I got an idea…”

That’s when I hold up a military knife. It’s six inches long with a rubber grip and wicked serrations. I make sure they both can see it.

I lie across Jake and slide my other hand underneath him. I work it up between his shoulder blades until I can grasp his long, slightly curly black hair. As I do so, I lower the blade until it’s right over his head. I can see the glint of light on its razor-sharp edge reflected in his wide, fear-filled brown eyes. He knows it’s coming for him, but he doesn’t know where. I keep him in suspense for a while.

“Look at it, fuckmeat,” I whisper to him. “Look at the blade. Imagine it cutting into you, bitch, imagine how much it’s gonna hurt. I’m gonna slice your flesh open like tender roast beef. You’re gonna wallow in pain and blood, suffering unbearable agony while you ride my cock. Don’t that sound like fun, you fucking pig?”

Jake cries and babbles incoherently. He’s still too high to be able to put up any effective resistance–but not too high to know what’s about to happen. I turn to Tommy and crank up the horror.

“This fuckpig is just about reamed out. Guess it’s time for a radical retightening. Pay close attention, meat, so you’ll know what to expect when it’s your turn.”

I wrap Jake’s hair around my hand and pull down, jerking his head back. I put the knife down for a moment to savor his long, muscular neck and massage his Adam’s apple. “Big piece of gristle in your throat,” I tell him, picking the knife back up, “let’s see if we can cut it down to size.”

I slam the blade straight down into his Adam’s apple, destroying his larynx in one blow.

Jake’s eyes open wide in shock. He starts to shriek, but I’ve severed his vocal cords; all that comes out is a gagging gasp. The knife has gone straight into the front of his throat so no major blood vessels have been cut. He’s in phenomenal pain–but he’s not dying.

I decide to enjoy it for a moment. I let go of the knife but leave it buried in his throat while I continue to fuck him.

“Oh yeah, motherfucker, that got you nice and clenched. Nothing like a little pain to help you get a grip on things–like my cock. Keep trying to scream, boy, your useless wheezing is really getting me off.”

Tommy is openly sobbing now. I’m gonna have to keep an eye on him; with that ball gag in, he could suffocate on his own snot. And I don’t want him dying till he’s on my dick.

Jake is coughing up a little blood but judging by the gurgling sounds I think he’s inhaling most of it. Each time I jam my rod deep inside of him, the blade bobs back and forth in the wound, causing more damage. His face is a rictus of agony, wet with tears, his black goatee stained with blood.

“Holy shit, that did the trick, you worthless little fuck. A little tickle with a blade got you all hot and horny. Keep it up, punk, you’re working my dick real good now.”

The meat has no choice; it has to lie there and submit to my knife and my cock. Rigid with pain and panic, Jake is trying desperately to remain conscious. It would be easier for him if he just let go, but he doesn’t know that. That’s why I like them young–they struggle to stay alive longer. Any strength they possess works against them by dragging out the nightmarish scene.

I’m really pounding the meat in the ass by this point. He’s staring at the ceiling in misery, face streaked with tears and snot and blood, probably trying to tell himself that he’ll get through this if he can just hold on. Time to disabuse him–and Tommy too–of that notion.

“Fuckin’ A, happens every time. I get to fucking a nice, conditioned piece of meat and it starts to go loose again. What are we gonna do about that, boy? I must not have hurt you bad enough for it to stick. Well, I can fix that. Hold on, pig; if you though that last one was bad, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

I press one hand down over his face to hold his head in place while I yank the blade out of his throat. More blood seeps from the wound as I reposition the knife and start flaying open his esophagus.

The punk fucker opens his mouth and screams silently as the taut flesh of his neck is sliced open, exposing the raw meat inside his throat. I only cut about halfway down, still trying to avoid the major blood vessels; bleeding out would be too quick. I’m still having fun playing with him. I find myself having to put some effort into sawing open the rubbery tissue of his windpipe.

As the gurgling sound of his respiration quickens in shock and terror, pink foam comes bubbling out of the gaping hole in his neck. Even without severing the carotid or the jugular, he’s still inhaling substantial amounts of blood

I take a quick peek at Tommy to see how he’s enjoying his ringside seat. He stares dully at the horror show in front of him. I suspect he’s protecting his psyche by retreating into a catatonic state.

Well, pain will take care of that. He won’t have the luxury of denial long.

Jake is still trying to straight-arm death. He’s losing the battle, but his fight is working my dick like magic. His trachea has partially collapsed and he’s having difficulty breathing. Each agonizing breath is accompanied by a high-pitched squeal as sliced shreds of flesh block the meat’s airway.

He’s having to strain harder with each attempt to inhale. Every time he does, his entire body goes rigid with the effort, causing his rectum to close up on my tool. I run my hands up his sides and over his firm, heaving chest, slick with desperate sweat. His glands are malfunctioning in the face of swiftly approaching death; powerful manstink wafts from his hairy pits.

As I lean over him, anxious to watch the light fade from his eyes, I can feel his dick, still swollen and engorged from the cockring. It’s hot and throbbing; I can feel it spasm against my belly. A bubble of blood burst from the meat’s mouth and then I feel a warmth spreading over my abdomen as the dying punk shoots uncontrollably.

His ass seems to pulse around my rod, forcing a huge wad of spunk to erupt deep inside him. At the same time, he hasn’t stopped shooting; a jet of semen rises in the air and splashes back down onto his face, diluting the blood and pooling into his slowly glazing eyes.

The meat gives one last long groan–a death rattle not caused by his shredded vocal cords but instead caused by his last breath forcing its way out past the mangled cartilage blocking his throat. He shudders momentarily, milking the last drop of cum out of my shaft before he goes still.

But I ain’t done yet. There’s still plenty of cream boiling in my sack. Time to drain it into my next fucktoy.

The first thing I do after pulling my cock out of the dead meat is remove the gag from Tommy’s mouth. Tommy’s eyes are half-closed. He drools and makes a low keening sound, terror rendering him non-functional. I approach him from behind, running my hands over his smooth ass, reaching between his legs and jacking his dick for a bit. He may be out of his mind with fear, but his tool responds like he’s really into this.

Maybe he is. Most of these little punks usually submit to their buried desire by the time death takes them. They’ll fight it to the bitter end, but they finally come to accept and understand. Some of them, I’m convinced, enjoy the pain and fear and domination–judging by how hard they cum when it’s all said and done.

Of course, I’ve learned a lot about human physiology over the years. Whether they want to or not, they all blow a huge load when they die. I see to that. But still, as they sink into the cold embrace of oblivion, I can see in their eyes gratitude for showing them their ultimate purpose and giving them the greatest orgasm possible, one fueled by the body’s instinctive need to expel its reproductive seed before it dies.

On the other hand, I leave some of the meat so brain-damaged that it’s incapable of realizing that it’s cumming. The orgasm is reflexive, caused by misfiring neurons. I really don’t care, as long as it gets me off. It’s just meat, after all.

There’s a recliner in the room. I pull it up behind my fucktoy and sit for a moment, admiring his tight ass, his muscular calves rising from his skate shoes, his smooth back widening to his shoulders. It’s not long before I’m hard again. When I get up, I leave the chair in place. I have plans for it, if I can manipulate the meat just right.

Tommy’s low moaning spirals into a wail as I split his asscheeks with my cock, mounting him from behind like a dog. The kid is clearly a virgin; he’s so tight it hurts my dick. His own pain is much worse, of course–I’m tearing his sphincter. I can feel a thick, viscous fluid on my tool. He’s bleeding inside.

I hold the meat tightly to me as I brutally fuck him. He sobs and moans in time to my thrusts, each pump of my hips eliciting a cry of pain. My hands slip down his belly to grab his dick and cup his balls. As I masturbate him, he starts to respond, growing erect in spite of himself.

I reach for the nail gun. I’ve really been looking forward to this. These three-inch nails will pitilessly tear into his young, hard body, embedding themselves into his muscles and bones. His agony will be exquisite and I’ll enjoy every second of the torture.

I reach around Tommy’s chest and up to his face, grabbing it and pulling him back so he’s pressed against me. I bring up the nail gun and fire it into his side.

The first one shatters a rib on the way in, spewing bone fragments like shrapnel. The kid stiffens and I can feel his scream vibrate down his body and up through my cock. He’s making too much noise; I need to quiet him down. Traumatic shock will do the job nicely. The next nail goes into his kidney.

The meat gasps and trembles. He’s panting like a dog and his blond hair is dark and slick with sweat. He jerks his arms but he’s held firm with his hands nailed to the board.

“Try as hard as you like, motherfucker. There’s no escape. You’ll take all the pain I give you until I’m ready to waste your punk ass. And you’re gonna die hard, bitch. Your last few minutes on earth will be a nightmare of agony. You’ll squeal like a pig as I off you and fill your corpse with cum.”

As his back writhes against my stomach, I slip the gun around to Tommy’s front and fire again. This nail misses the ribs but rips through his pectoral muscle and penetrates his lung. The punk kicks and twists vainly, unable to break free of the iron grip of pain. The hole in his lung makes it difficult to inhale; each breath is labored and panicked.

He’s so fucking hot–young, smooth, strong, bleeding and crying. Suddenly, with gasping words, he starts begging–not for his life, but for his death. He wants me to kill him and end his misery.

“I knew it, you worthless little fuck. This is what you want, what gets you hard. You’ll cry and piss and scream, but your fucking pig soul wants to be used and thrown out like the piece of shit you are. Now shut up and take my cock, whore; the only thing I wanna hear you beg for is more of my dick.”

I put a nail into the meat’s flat belly. His broken sobbing is beautifully erotic; in a haze of lust, I pound his ass furiously. Slippery with sweat, he moans and struggles, his silky skin sliding frictionlessly over mine. I’m close, I’m so close.

“Going into the home stretch, motherfucker. It’s just about time to pop one of these bad boys into your skull, dude. Are ya ready, bitch? Ready to feel steel in your brain and my cum warming your guts as you sink into a cold, agonizing death? I sure the fuck am. I’m gonna fuck up your brain so bad you’ll end up as a meat puppet dancing on the end of my dick and after I cum, I’m gonna toss you and your buddy in the trash like used rubbers.”

I’m hunched over him, hips gyrating in a blur, pressing the nail gun against the back of the meat’s head. After I speak, I stay silent for a while, fucking him continually, letting his terror build. After about sixty seconds, I feel him relax slightly. That’s when I fire the gun.

The nail penetrates his skull smoothly, the head resting flush against the skin, buried in his sweat-soaked hair. The punk’s soft, vulnerable cerebellum is peppered with shards of cranial bone. Tommy’s spasm is instant and incredibly violent; he arches his body back against mine. His arms pull back with a mighty yank, ripping his hands free by jerking the heads of the nails through the backs of his hands. As his fists clench and release convulsively, they bleed like stigmata. The nails I used to secure him remain in the crossbar, dripping blood and flesh. One has a length of tendon dangling from it.

Holding the meat to me, I stagger backwards and fall into the recliner. My cock never leaves the pig’s ass as I pull him down on top of me. I lay back and blast another nail into his brain, this one in the temple.

This one short-circuits the electrochemical pulses in his nervous system. He flops back in my lap; looking over his shoulder, I can see his thick rod, erect and corded with veins, throbbing and oozing pre-cum. He’s just about there. I just need to make him shoot.

I take my time. He’s bouncing up and down on my tool like he’s riding a pogo stick. His respiration speeds up; he’s breathing in short, irregular gasps. Each exhale is accompanied by an involuntary moan. I fondle the dying meat’s cock and balls as he seizes and convulses on top of me. This is my reward; this is what I wanted–this little skate punk bobbing mindlessly on my dick, helpless, vulnerable, completely in my control.

I’m set for the ultimate domination–working the agonized punk to orgasm as his life drains away. He’s nearly there already; the trauma to his brain has made him susceptible to physical manipulation. I jack him with one hand while I place the nail gun in his groin.

An explosion of semen, boiling like magma, erupts from the head of my cock and floods the meat’s rectum. Simultaneously, I fire the gun, driving a nail deep into the base of the punk’s sack, cold steel penetrating his scrotum and skewering the root of his cock. His velvety balls pucker and spasm instantly. The final blast of pain was all he needed–the extra stimulus to his nervous system pushing him over the edge of orgasm. Ropy white strands spew out of the straining purple head of the meat’s dick. His shuddering, rigid body locks up, forcing a series of grunts out of his mouth. At the same time, a chunk of meat slips from between his lips and off his chin, leaving a bloody trail. In his convulsions, the fuckpig bit off the tip of his tongue.

I don’t know how long I shoot. My orgasm seems to last for half an hour; I unload so much sperm into the meat’s intestines that I’m amazed my balls don’t collapse. My fucktoy is packed full of cum. I can feel it oozing out of his torn, reamed-out hole and matting my pubic hair.

I slump back in exhaustion, glancing over at Jake’s gorgeous corpse lying in a puddle of piss and cum. I may go another round with both boys–there’s no sense in wasting fresh meat, after all–but right now, I need some sleep. I start drifting off with my rod still sheathed in Tommy. As I close my eyes, I can still feel him quiver and twitch. When I wake up later on, he’ll be stiff and cold on my cock, but right now there’s still a tiny, dwindling spark of life left in his sexy, traumatized body. I hold him close, turn his trembling, innocent face to mine and kiss his bloody lips as I fall asleep.

The kid is young, no older than twenty. Short, but muscular; he’s been working out. No surprise there; he’s a whore, so he needs to maintain his moneymaker.

It’s cold out and sleet is starting to fall. That’s probably why he’s still available—there’s no traffic now. Everyone is home and safe and warm. Except this kid; he’s still out selling his body. He must be desperate. Wonder what kinda habit he’s supporting.

Well, after tonight, it won’t matter. Surest way to get a monkey off your back is to get dead.

He’s relieved when I pull up. I don’t give him much time; I’ve got my tire iron in the back seat and I go upside his head with it before he can speak. He slumps against his door, snoring slightly as I drive back to the apartment I’ve rented.

It’s dark when I get there. Power’s out in the whole neighborhood. This place I’ve rented is older and has a fireplace. I’d laid in a supply of wood when I saw the forecast.

This whore is gonna die in front of the fire.

I’ve positioned an upright pole in front of the fireplace. I place the kid on his back and pull his hands up over his head, tying them to the pole. After I start a fire—and get enough light to see what I’m doing—I start removing his clothes. I cut off his jeans, leaving his shiny black Doc Martens in place. I cut off his t-shirt and the denim vest he’s wearing, too. He must have been cold.

He’s nude now, except for his socks and boots. He’s well-built and pretty well hung for his size. There’s a tribal armband tattoo around his bulging right bicep. His hair is black and curly and worn long in the back, kinda like a mullet. A trickle of blood has run down his right temple from the spot where I’d popped him. It’s dry now.

Rentboy is starting to wake up. In a flash, I’ve got a ball gag in his mouth. With the power out, it’s really quiet around here. This piggy’s gonna squeal some before I’m done; I need to muffle him before I get started.

I pry his smooth thighs apart and shove the head of my cock into his well-used hole. He gives a slight groan, but this is clearly nothing new for him. He’s pretty loose, but I know how to fix that.

I always like showing off my knife before I use it. The fuckmeat works my tool longer and more intensely when the pain is combined with fear. And my Ka-bar utility knife with its seven inch serrated carbon-steel blade is something to be afraid of.

The kid’s large, dark eyes finally open. He looks around in dazed confusion, trying to move. His hands are bound above his head with zip ties and he can’t do anything with them. He can kick his legs but I’m pinning him to the floor with my dick, so he can’t do much else.

I lie full-length on top of him and grab his throat. With my other hand, I hold the knife in front of his eyes, letting it reflect the orange flames back into his panicked face.

I slowly insert the knife into his left side, under the rib cage. The whore quivers in agony as the sharpened steel slides through his flesh and tears open muscle. His screams are muffled by the gag, but his face shows how much pain he’s in. He shakes his head; eyes squeezed shut with tears streaming out. The resistance on my blade changes abruptly; I’ve hit the spleen.

Suddenly the punk jerks, his eyes opened wide and dilated. Organ trauma usually induces a basic level of shock. His muscles tightened reflexively and his ass clamped down on my dick, as I’d planned.

I slowly pull the blade out. I don’t want to do too much damage yet. I’m gonna bleed him out like a stuck pig, but that’s for later. It’s difficult to keep ‘em going like this sometimes. Getting the right physical reaction requires precision placement of the blade and usually involves trauma to some organ or another. But too much organ damage can lead to death by hemorrhage (before I’m ready) or an irreversible deep state of shock that elicits no reaction at all. This latter state is useful if you need a quick stealth kill.

I like to enjoy my kills a little more. I ease the blade into the punk’s hard, flat belly. It slips in smoothly, almost gliding in like a hot knife through butter. The bitch’s scream is tempered to a long, low moan by the gag.

“Shut up, you fuckin’ bitch. This is what you been wantin’, ain’t it? You’ve just been waiting for some guy to come along and stick something long and hard into ya. Now you got two at the same time, fucker. And you love it, don’t ya, faggot? You tighten your ass up like a good little piggy every time I stick ya. You keep that up and you’ll get my load, bitch. You’re gonna love what happens then. You really are gonna die squealing like a pig when I give you my load. Best happy ending ever!”

I smile beatifically into his face as I tell him about his death. I don’t miss a stroke in my thrusting, though. I only miss a beat while I press the tip of the knife into his right pectoral muscle. There’s immediate resistance—I must have hit a rib—and I have to lean on the haft of the blade. There’s a snapping sound and the knife sinks in up to the hilt. The kid is developed, but small—the blade has completely penetrated him, with the tip coming out of his back.

He stiffens in pain, moaning loudly. He starts writhing, trying to free himself from the iron grip of agony. But he’s pinned in place by my rod and my blade, the latter impaling him to the floor. His rectum cycles through a swift rippling motion up and down the shaft of my cock.

His eyes stare frantically into mine. He still doesn’t quite get it. I know he will, before he dies. He’ll realize that I’m only giving him what he’s wanted all along. He just needs to know he’s really dying. His left lung has been penetrated twice and is collapsing, but he still doesn’t know, beyond any doubt, that he’s dying…

I can fix that.

I lie full-length on him again, feeling his hard body jerking underneath my, sliding around on the blood that’s leaked from his chest wound. There’s really not that much blood since I haven’t pulled the knife out of the wound yet. His dark eyes look pleadingly into mine. His breathing it swift and deep; he’s starting to cough up blood from his damaged lung. He’s gonna die soon enough—I’m just making sure he knows it.

“Ok, you punk fuck, time to make you meat. This is gonna hurt like fuck. I’m gonna cut your throat and let you bleed out while you’re riding my dick. You’re gonna love it, faggot; you’re gonna get butchered like a good pig. Just accept it; this is what you want. This is why you’re out on the streets every night. You wanted a man to come along and cut you like the meat you are. You wanted to die with a dick up your ass. Here ya go, ya fuckin’ death pig, die on my fucking cock, you worthless punk shit!”

I yank the knife brutally out of his chest and saw open his throat, using the serrated edge of the blade to cut into the rubbery trachea. The moment I slice open his windpipe, the fuckmeat shoots his load up my belly and chest. His legs tighten around me. I can feel the smooth leather of his boots as his heels rake my ass in pain—and in pleasure.

His eyes—I can’t really describe the expression. There’s the terror of his imminent death, but there’s also a gratitude for the satisfaction of a desire he’d never known he’d had.

He lays his head back, gasping and gurgling as blood flows down his shredded esophagus into his lungs. Each agonized exhale covers the gash in the meat’s throat with pink foam. Each inhalation is a gargle, the desperate reflex of fuckmeat drowning in its own blood.

As he gags and the foam boils from his bisected neck, he continues to shoot. He finally gets it. Things are getting dim for him. His blood pressure is dropping rapidly, so his extremities are going limp and numb. His vision is fading from the outside in. But he can still feel my tool buried deep in his ass. And since there’s still enough life left in him for his ass to massage my dick, he gets to feel my load, too, before the darkness claims him.

As I cum, holding the dying meat down, two more streams of semen erupt from his swollen cock, splattering his face and smearing into the blood oozing from his throat. The kid milks the last few drops out of my cock with a final death spasm, then goes still. His dick contracts, leaving a glistening trail behind.

I clean myself up and wait for the whoremeat to stop leaking. When it does, I pick it up and carry it to the bedroom.

Without power, it’s cold in there. And it’ll keep longer, away from the fire. I don’t think I’m quite done with it yet.

“Shut up, you little fucking bitch. You said you wanted some cock and now you’re getting it, so shut the fuck up.”

He had, too. Come right up to me and grabbed my junk. I’d gone to a different park this time; a place I’d heard had some good pick-ups. I’d heard right. I hadn’t been there for more than a few minutes before this one approached.

He’s about twenty, short—five foot two, if I’m generous. Stocky and well-built, though. Long sandy hair worn in a ponytail. Faint shadow of facial hair. He’s got large dark eyes with long lashes.

He’s wearing tight brown jeans with gray suede Nike hightops. His dark t-shirt clings to him, showing his muscled chest to advantage. He stands right in front of me, grinning up into my face as he tells me he wanted to get fucked.

So I say sure. He’s gonna get fucked all right. He has no idea how fucked he is.

It’s been a while. I was looking for some meat to soak up my seed.

The fuckmeat yammers away about what it likes to do as I decide the best way to off it. I’ve got several fresh layers of plastic in the back of the van. I can make a little mess…

I let him smoke the rest of the joint that I’d saved from last time. Damn, that works perfectly. He’s awake and moaning but unable to do more than bat weakly at me as I drag him out of the passenger seat and into the back.

I slip a ball gag on him; he can’t speak but he can make involuntary sounds. And he’s gonna be making a lot of them before I’m done.

Then I strip him—shoes, jeans, shorts, shirt. Shoes go back on and then I pull out a length of string for something I’ve been practicing. I loop the string tightly around the base of the kid’s dick and then again around his balls before jerking the knot closed. His cock slowly swells, purple with bulging veins.

The boy is flat on his back, arms out to his side, as I kneel between his legs. He moans loudly, incoherently as I spit on my throbbing cock and shove it into his ass. I remind him this is what he’d wanted.

What comes next, he probably won’t want.

“Your ass is kinda loose, fuckmeat. Been whorin’ it out a lot, ain’t ya? Wonder what I can do to make ya tighten it up? Huh, lessee what we got here…”

I grope around on the floor above the kid’s head. This way, I can lean over him and stare right into those beautiful dark eyes and smile benignly as I reach for the 7-inch serrated steel K-Bar knife.

I slowly caress the fuckmeat’s face with the blade, smiling and whispering.

His eyes are huge, the terror in them shining through like madness. He jerks his body convulsively in a futile attempt to make a useful move towards fleeing. A babble of muffled grunts erupts from behind the ball gag.

None of it does any good; he can’t move. He has no choice but to accept what I’m doing to him.

“You want this, don’t ya, you little death whore? You wanted someone to breed you and off you, huh? You’re gonna get embalmed with cum, you fuckin’ punk. Gonna get my semen pumped into your ass while your blood pumps out through the hole I’m gonna rip in your throat, fucker. And your dick’s tied up so tight you’re gonna blow your load too. No matter how much you suffer, you’re gonna shoot; you won’t be able to control it.”

More inarticulate moans, rising in pitch as I close in with the knife and start slicing into the fuckmeat’s neck just below the adam’s apple. His entire body is rigid and quivering in agony; I can feel his sphincter clamp the base of my tool like a cock ring. The tempo and pitch of the boy’s cries increase as I cut through the tougher tissues of the esophageal wall.

The sound of his cries cease abruptly; now that I’ve torn a hole in his windpipe, there’s a deep gurgling gasp. The fuckmeat writhes, eyes frantically seeking my own in horror and confusion. He still doesn’t understand.

Not good enough.

“I don’t care who you are, bitch. You are fuckmeat. The more it hurts while you die, the better my orgasm will be. It’s that simple. Now suffer, you fucking piece of shit, suffer and make me cum.”

He responds by arcing his body violently upwards off the floor, accompanied by a loud high wheeze, almost a squeal. I can see what’s happening. The front of his trachea, no longer supported as a tube, is collapsing in on itself with each breath where the throat is slashed. Each tortured gasp is drawing in only the minimal amount of oxygen needed to retain consciousness.

His hands come up, flailing uselessly at his throat. By the way he’s pawing at his wound, I can tell this is a desperate effort to claw open his plugged airway. But he doesn’t have the coordination to successfully grasp the flap of flesh that’s been sucked back down his throat. And the blood, acting as lube, doesn’t help his fingers gain any traction on the mangled gash.

Now he’s fighting for air. The agony in his throat, in his ass, in his rigid, straining cock—these fill his awareness as death overwhelms the fuckmeat. His hard, muscled body begins the rhythmic convulsions that occur at the onset of brain death. I’m not sure if the fuckmeat knows I’m here; I don’t know if his brain is still functional enough to perceive more of me than the horrible tearing sensation in the rectum. But just in case…

“Bleed and die, you little fuck. The only thing I’m gonna remember about you is that you got my rocks off when you died. I probably won’t remember where I toss your rotting cum-soaked meat when I’m done fucking it. Ya like that, ya fuckin’ deathpig? Yeah, I thought so, ya worthless fuckwhore…”

He ejaculated a solid stream of cum that splattered in the pool of blood over the kid’s right shoulder. The pool had spread out around his head and his ponytail was dark with the blood. Pink foam was oozing out of the throat wound as blood flowed into the airway.

More blood continued to leak from the massive rip in the boy’s neck. The convulsions became more frequent as the squeals from the fuckmeat’s closed-off windpipe became more desperate. Suddenly his legs clamped around me, his shoes digging into my back as a massive final convulsion held us both in its embrace and I filled the meat’s guts with my load—a last bit of warmth inside him as he bled out into a cold, cold death.
************************************************************************************************************************************************************
When I throw the meat out, I like to wrap it loosely in the plastic. That way, it traps warmth and moisture and gasses and rots faster. Just make sure it’s not wrapped too tightly. Let the bugs in; they’re your friends.

See, if I do that, I can go back to him one last time before disposal and not have to worry about evidence. And I am going back to him. He’s lying there, pale and helpless, legs spread, blood matting his hair, and I can tell by the look in his dull, glazed eyes, he still wants my cock.

I’ve heard it said repeatedly that the anticipation of having something is better than actually having whatever it is you’re anticipating. In many cases, that’s true. In some, however, it’s not.

As much as I’m enjoying my plans to hurt the boy on the bike, I think I’m gonna like actually hurting him more.

He’s been out on his bicycle for a little while now. He caught my attention because he’s riding around without a shirt on and it’s been kinda cool for the past week or so. Not weather in which to go shirtless. I’m glad he is, though.

He looks like he’s in his late teens; I’d say no older than twenty. Slim build but his smooth skin is stretched taut over his biceps and pecs. He’s not overly developed but instead has a strong, wiry swimmer’s body.

He’s wearing a pair of tight gray jeans that just barely come up over his ass. His tightly laced white leather hightops are pumping the pedals furiously.

I have to close my eyes and breathe deeply for a moment. I’m imagining those shoes pumping futilely in the air as life ebbs from his body. Yes, there’s something to be said for anticipation, too.

He’s got a shock of curly brunette hair, but most of it is covered by what appears to be a battered gray fedora. It’s somehow both ridiculous and adorable.

I’m going to take this boy. I’m gonna get off by killing him. I’m gonna use his worthless meat to wipe up my semen. His corpse is gonna end up as nothing more than a used cumrag.

He’s been circling the parking lot for the better part of an hour by now. He pops a wheelie now and then but isn’t really doing much else. He’s been glancing at me from time to time. Clearly wondering why I’m watching him. It’s also just as clear that he doesn’t suspect my real motive, because he starts circling closer and closer, staring at me a little longer each time he passes by
.
As he gets closer, I notice the tattoo on his left shoulder. It’s a smiley face with a bullet hole in the forehead, leaking blood. I can’t help but to grin broadly at the kid; it’s too perfect.

He also starts getting a bit bolder on the bike. I’m not sure what he’s hoping for, but I think he’s trying to impress me. At any rate, he gives me my opening when he fucks up a stoppie right in front of me and falls headfirst onto the asphalt.

“Hey, dude, you ok? That was wicked!” I grin and lay it on thick.

“Shit, man, I dunno. Guess I got owned. Think I should sit down for a sec.”

“C’mon into my van and have a seat. Lemme get you a beer.”

His eyes light up—so, under twenty-one then. When I offer a joint as well, he becomes downright eager. They make it so easy. Poor little fucktoy has no idea how close he is to an agonizing death.

I open the door on the side of the van so we can get in the back, telling the punk to grab himself a beer from the cooler. Of course he’s going to ask about the layer of plastic covering the floor, so I have a story ready.

“I paint houses, man. That’s so I don’t get paint all over the place. Put a new sheet of painter’s plastic down after each job.”

Little fuck buys it and helps himself to a can of cheap beer. Slams the fucking thing, in fact; I’m impressed. I’d puke, trying to get that swill down that quick…

The joint, as usual, is pre-rolled and spiked. Not heavily; I don’t want him unconscious. This is gonna be something like GHB. He’ll be awake but unable to resist. I’ve added something new; there’s a bit of a hallucinogenic in there too. I’m hoping to make this the ultimate bad trip. The greater his terror, the more he’ll thrash about on my cock. I let him smoke it alone while we talk.

“I was watchin’ you for a while, dude. You ain’t bad,” I tell him.

He grins and blushes a bit, then turns away, embarrassed. Tries to play it tough. “Yeah, I seen ya lookin’. Thought you was a faggot or something at first. But this is some good weed, so we’re cool, dude, even if ya are.”

He stares me directly in the face with his hand on the bulge in his crotch. He’s telling me he can be had, as if I didn’t already know that. As if it mattered, anyway. His coordination is getting worse with each passing minute.

He’s limp by the time he’s smoked the joint halfway. I make sure to put it out and save it for later; this mixture might come in handy.

I pull the boy next to me and take that stupid fedora off his head. I grab the thick rod silhouetted in his groin and massage it for a moment, enjoying its thick heft. In a moment, his shoes are off and I’ve got his jeans down, running my hands down his thighs as he lies limp in my arms. He’s gone commando under the jeans—of course; ready for action at the drop of a hat (a battered fedora, perhaps).

I grab at his tool again; long and thick and yet still not hard. I cradle his balls in my palm for a moment, then bend down and slip his hightops back on.

I lean back and look in his face. As I’d hoped, he’s conscious but not able to move much. He’s moaning slightly, fear building in his eyes as he realizes his helplessness. He’s becoming aware that I can do anything I want to him and there’s nothing he could do to stop it. He can’t really even cry out right now.

I still strap a ball gag into his mouth, though. It doesn’t matter how drugged he is—the pain I’m gonna inflict on him will have him screaming. Only way drugs could help would be to put him out of his pain with an overdose. And that, of course, is no fun.

The boy is laying on his back now, legs spread. With apprehensive eyes, he watches me strip. I put my work boots back on afterwards—helps to have some traction on the plastic.

Then I jam my engorged purple cock into the punk’s tight hole.

He moans loudly, grimacing in pain. He looks at me desperately, tears leaking from the corners of his wide green eyes. He still has no control over his muscles, so I place his legs on my shoulders and hold them in place with my arms, feeling the leather of his shoes against my head. I spend the next few minutes raping him while he lies immobile on the bed, arms out to his sides.

After a while, I’ve stretched out the natural elasticity of his sphincter. I need to get his ass to tighten down on my dick again, but from now on it’ll have to be the tightening of muscle. And since his voluntary muscle system is kinda paralyzed at the moment, I need something to manipulate his reflexes.

Although I don’t use it often, the icepick is one of my favorite toys. In reality, though, I don’t like calling it a toy. It’s a weapon of accuracy and finesse. Flailing away with one, stabbing at random (as it seems to be most commonly used), is like using a Stradivarius for high school band practice.

The kid has his head back and his eyes closed and seems to have calmed down. He clearly enjoying getting fucked. I lean down over him, my belly against his firm, flat belly. I’m looking into his face as I insert the icepick into his side—slowly, smoothly.

He’s screaming now, but it only comes out as a long, emphatic moan. He’s crying, tears trickling down the side of his face. But he can’t move; he can’t twist away from the thin shaft of steel that’s slowly—oh god, so slowly—skewering its way into his left side, puncturing his abdominal cavity below the ribcage, piercing his intestines multiple times.

His muscles tighten with the agony. It makes his rectum clamp down on my cock. Once you get down the right speed, everything else happens automatically.

Let’s see if that hallucinogen has helped.

“How does that feel bitch? Ya like that? Good, cause you’re gonna get more. See, I already reamed your ass out. But every time I stick you, your ass tightens, along with most of the rest of your muscles. It’s a reflex over which you have no control. But I do, with this.” I held the icepick right in front of his face so he could see his own blood dripping off it. “I can use this to make your ass keep squeezing my dick. But only for so long, fuckmeat, only for so long.”

I’m grinning at him the entire time, not losing a single thrust in his ass while I talk. I switch the pick to my other hand and slide it into the fucker’s left side, enjoying the velvety smoothness of his rectum clenching my rod. He moans loudly.

For the next half hour, I run the icepick into in various parts of his chest and abdomen, very carefully avoiding organs and major blood vessels. Even so, internal bleeding was starting to take a toll. He was a long way from death yet, but the reflex reaction was starting to fade.

“Fuck, dude, you’re getting’ loose,” I whisper to him. “Gotta tighten ya up again. Guess I better amp it up a notch. Ready to take it to the next level, fuckmeat? Ready to get fucked up for good? The more it hurts, the better it feels. So I’m gonna make sure this hurts wicked bad, dude.”

This time, it goes into his kidney. He doesn’t scream; he tries to gasp around the bright orange ball tied into his mouth. As the fucker goes into shock, his ass muscles ripple up and down my shaft.

God, I’m so close. I get one more of these and then it’ll be time for the finale. Timing is everything; it’s what lifts this above a sordid physical interaction into a form of art.

I slam the icepick into the right side of the kid’s chest, feeling the resistance of the pectoral give way as the tip passes through and punctures the lung. The boy gives a low, despairing bleat.

I’m back over him, showing him the pick again. There’s a miniscule nick in the shaft and a tiny sliver of lung tissue is caught in it.

“Just about fucked you out, bitch. It’s been fun but I wanna shoot my load and you gotta get wasted for that to happen. Don’t worry, dude; I’m gonna make sure you drain your dick, too. Don’t know if you’ll get to enjoy it, though; you’re gonna have other things on your mind. Or in it. Same difference. All that will be left will be your highest and best use—meat to soak up my cum.”

He’s still there. He’s on his way out; it’s only a matter of time. And not much time, at that. He’s been crying continually and his nostrils are getting clogged. With that gag in his mouth, he’s gonna suffocate in a few minutes.

But the hallucinogen did what I’d hoped. He’s still there–even in a state of trauma-induced shock, he’s heard every word I’ve said. Even better, he’s understood them all. He knows why this is happening. He knows that he’s suffering this indescribable agony so I can get off. I don’t need to know his name, who he is, what his hopes were. As far as I care, his only purpose on earth is to die slowly and painfully so his death throes can jack me off.

“Ok, you little fuck; this is what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna stick this in your ear. You’ll feel it tear through you eardrum before it thrusts its way through the fragile bone structure in your inner ear. This part, I’ll do slowly, so you can enjoy it. After that, it’ll be in your brain. You don’t have any nerves there, but I have another way to have fun at that point. Time to get saddled up, fuckmeat. Gonna be up your ass and in your skull at the same time.”

I’m a man of my word. I’m laying full on top of him, watching his face the entire time, my cock up his ass as far as I can get it while I patiently, lovingly insert the icepick into his ear.

Tears flow down his face and his breathing becomes swift and irregular. I can feel his chest jerking beneath mine, his smooth, tight chest, well-greased with a desperate sweat forced out by the pain. His body, naturally oiled, squirms beneath me, but it’s his eyes I’m watching.

I can tell when I’ve reached the brain. His eyes—oh my god, his eyes, the beautiful terror in his helpless green eyes—dilate when I penetrate to a certain depth. Then I jerk down, a little jog to the left…

Suddenly there’s a red hot bar of iron pressed against my belly. Fuckmeat has a hard-on; I’ve hit the pleasure center of the brain. One little twitch to make him blow…

It takes pin-point accuracy to get that massive convulsion that causes the fuckmeat to shoot. It’s worth finding the right spot, though, because that same convulsion somehow seems to collapse the meat’s asshole around my cock and apply suction.

As the kid goes rigid with the massive brain trauma I’ve inflicted, his legs tighten around my back in a kind of embrace that forces his ass down further onto my dick. The drugs have no effect on his death spasm. His body arcs up off the floor; violently, it brings me up with it.

He shoots his wad. A reflex from the brain damage; the boy is dead. This is a corpse, spraying semen as a reflexive attempt to preserve DNA. A fountain of cum sprays between us; he keeps pumping out thick creamy ropes. My god, his balls must have been full. It keeps flowing and flowing…

The seizure works the fuckmeat’s ass beautifully; I shoot a solid stream of cum up into the dying kid’s guts. Holy fuck, I keep spraying too. I remember collapsing on top of the quivering fuckmeat, still skullfucking the steel shaft into his brain and feeling the spasms flowing along that hot iron bar that was still pressed against my belly…

It’s dark when I wake up. My cock is still nestled in my fuckmeat’s ass. We’ve both cum so much that I’m stuck to his body by a glazed coat—a glaze that matches the look in his beautiful green eyes.

I need to get moving. Have to get out of here, have to get rid of the body—oh, but not for a while yet. I’m getting hard again. The ball gag has kept his mouth open and his eyes are tilted slightly upwards.

They’ll be looking right into mine when his lips are resting on the root of my cock.